


Saddest Words of Tongue or Pen

by TheWyldeWynd



Series: SWAC - Sealed With A Curse [3]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: 5+1 Things, AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bliss (Far Cry), Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, No One Here is Emotionally/Mentally Stable, Someone Help The Deputy, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Deputy deserves none of this, The Seeds are Their Own Warnings, Unintentional Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Violence, Well 6+1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: Once upon a time, a young woman met her soulmates.  It didn't go so well.But... for just a moment... let's suppose things weredifferent.(Is differentbetter?)(Different is different.)Anyway.  Once upon a time...





	1. Don't - Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Soooooo… this isn't... **actually** the third installment of SWAC. It's a side-story dealie. *prolonged sigh of weariness and shame*_
> 
> _So here's the deal: back when I realized I wasn't going to be able to start uploading part 3 of the main story immediately/shortly after part 2 wrapped up, (and once I finished screaming/croaking my frustration and despair into the cold, unfeeling void), I got the idea that (if it took me that long) a really good time to start uploading SWAC P3 would be on June 28, 2019 - aka, the Friday in the anniversary week for when I published the first chapter of 'Write Your Words.' *gestures at surrounding content* Clearly this is not how things played out. In lieu of the intended work, however, I hope you will receive and enjoy this: this first in a small number of side stories I've got planned for this series._
> 
> _I am, to my **IMMENSE** displeasure/frustration/mind-numbing despair, still working on SWAC part 3. I have no idea when it's going to start going up and I don't even want to wager a guess or express hope because doing so is basically my version of climbing a mountain in a thunder-and-lightning storm while wearing copper armor and shouting "All the gods are bastards!" To paraphrase and quote Sir Terry Pratchett. Which... tl;dr, part 3's not done yet, am working on it, and all I can promise is that it **WILL** see the light of day. Someday. I presumptuously thank you for your patience and understanding._
> 
> _All that said... I really like this particular work; it's got a lot of fun idea that I had while writing other components of the series, but could find a place for/couldn't use because narrative. So I decided "hell with it, this is the internet!" and made (several) AU of my own AU. Cue the "Inception" bwaaaam!_ ***BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAM***
> 
> _Well, inanity over - let the true madness begin!_

Joseph Seed’s hellfire eyes are still locked with hers, his hands raised to her in a cruel imitation of surrender, his Words still burning into her skin like phosphorus.

Robin should be horrified. Should be falling into a chasm of _rage_ , screaming and railing at the injustice of it all. Should be breaking down, sobbing as all the desolation and fear she’s known for sixteen years proves to be too _little_. Should be falling back on her training, shielding and propping herself up with her job, her _Duty_ to bring the cult down, letting herself be subsumed by the title of Deputy and letting the badge cover her breaking heart until the job’s _done_.

She should be doing so many things.

But she can’t.

But she’s just so _numb_.

It’s like Joseph’s Words have sapped her, boring into her skin and leaching out all of her rage, winnowing her strength away and leaving her hollow and empty.

She hears Burke, vaguely, and deeply ingrained muscle memory makes her hands twitch, fingers tensing painfully on the cuffs. She should act. Should _obey_ her superior officer and follow her mission. Should clap the cuffs onto Joseph Seed’s wrists and lead him away to judgment. But she… can’t. She _can’t_ **_move_**. Can’t do anything but stare up into the eyes of her soulmate – her enemy, her collar, her greatest fear and tormentor – as he looks at her in smug, self-righteous serenity. _He_ –

He’s changing.

Joseph’s still looking at her, still holding his hands out, but his eyes… his expression… he’s… softening. The condescension and inhuman tranquility fading as he takes in her hesitation. His eyes are still holding hers but they’re turning gentle, the intensity easing into something new, like there’s sunlight hidden away under all that hellfire. His eyes are holding her in place, the crushing grip of razer-sharp steel turning to a velvet caress, and Robin feels herself shiver through the cocoon of numbness.

She can hear the voices of those she came in with – Whitehorse’s words full of restrained confusion and concern, Burke’s rough with anger and annoyance – but it suddenly doesn’t matter because Joseph’s mouth opens and he’s _speaking_ again, his voice gone soft and sad and so impossibly full of _compassion_ it’s almost like he’s another person entirely. “Sometimes,” his voice councils her, kind and tender, a father speaking to guide a wayward child, “it’s best to leave well enough alone.”

The new words wash over her like river water, cool and sweet and soothing, like a balm on the agony his Words caused her, and her brain actually whites out from the contrast, reality filtering back in a second later through a maelstrom of static and endorphins.

She wants…

Burke is snarling rabidly, and there’s fear straining to escape from the iron in Whitehorse’s voice as he tries to hiss the other man down, but the sounds are distant and faded like they’re under water, the whole _world_ around her getting drowned out by Joseph Seed’s eyes.

All the cruelty’s drained away now, Joseph staring into her face with so much profound sympathy that she thinks she might cry from it.

There’s something rising in her chest, building up in her throat, easing over her tongue to brush the backs of her teeth and lips, buoyed up by something she can’t bear to believe is hope.

How many hours – days, weeks, _years_ – has she spent agonizing over the Words on her left hand and wrist, tracing each ashen letter with a trembling finger, whispering the unhinged Words – _**God will not let you take me**_ – over and over into the isolated silence, trying to understand _how_. _How_ could _these_ be the first Words one of her soulmates will say to her? How could they be so vastly different from the first Words her _other_ soulmates will speak to her? How will she be able to live with it if her soulmate turns out as horrible as she fears, if they don’t…

If...

Joseph _is_ as horrible as she’s always feared. Hell, he’s _worse_. She’s seen the evidence, heard first and secondhand accounts, _knows_ now _what he **is**_. She could feel the madness when he spoke to her. The cruelty. The unholy assuredness of his own superiority and _righteousness_ as he looked and spoke down at her like _she_ was the monster.

Robin knows what he is.

Robin knows what she has to do.

So why the actual _fuck_ is she just standing there, staring at him, and daring to let herself _hope_?

How?

How can she _possibly_ be this desperate?

How can the man who’s looking at her with such _compassion_ be the same one who’d smiled as he gouged a man’s eyes out with his damn _thumbs_.

How can _Joseph. Fucking. Seed_ – of all people – be her _soulmate_?

And how can she look at him, knowing everything she does, and still **_want_**?

And she does want.

God and all the people of Hope County forgive her, she wants this.

Wants _him_.

Merciful fuck there’s something wrong with her.

She’s so caught up in her own head - in the maelstrom of guilt and confusion and self-loathing and _need_ \- that she barely notices when Joseph moves, his still upraised hands shifting slightly, becoming more an offer than a mockery of surrender. His long fingers flex slightly, and somehow that’s what catches her attention, her eyes sharpening again as she gets pulled back into Joseph’s impossible, forbidden compassion.

“Sometimes the best thing to do…” His voice is barely a whisper, so soft and gentle as it digs under her skin and claws its way inside to tear down all the ice and stone and steel she’s built up so carefully around her heart, as he sighs, “is to walk away.”

Once again everything _stops_.

Robin can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at Joseph with renewed horror. Her blood’s frozen, skin feeling flayed and raw, heart pounding in her chest like it’s going to explode, eyes burning and Words on _fire_ because…

Her soulmate is trying to send her away.

Her soulmate doesn’t want her.

Her soulmate’s rejecting her, so sweetly and gently, and if her heart was breaking _before_ then _now_ Robin thinks she might actually be dying.

It’s a blessing. She _knows_ it is, on some level. She should use this, take the chance, get them all out of there _alive_ , go and get some actual backup so they can… can…

She has a job to do. Duty. Responsibilities to her team and to the people of Hope County and to all of humanity. She has to…

She has to stop them. Stop _him_. She…

She can’t…

 _ **“Don’t make me leave.”**_ It’s barely even a whisper, but her voice echoes through the graveyard silence of the church like a peal of thunder. _**“Please.”**_

Joseph freezes the second the first Word falls from her lips, eyes going wide and mouth falling open, all his otherworldly grace and serene power vanishing, her Words tearing down the divine edifice and leaving Joseph Seed exposed, raw and vulnerable in his revealed humanity. Behind him she can vaguely see the others react – Jacob Seed flinching like he’s been shot, strength and confidence bleeding out of him as he _stares_ at her, John Seed _leaping_ forward, staggering down off his perch before his body fails him and he shudders to a stop at his oldest brother’s side.

She distantly hears Whitehorse’s low, concerned “Rook?” Hears Burke’s shocked exhale, his snarled exclamation of confused disgust. Sees the way that Faith Seed has gone statue still and deathly pale.

None of that matters. The only thing that _does_ is that Joseph is still just _staring_ at her, looking confused and thunderstruck and not moving, not saying anything, that he doesn’t _want_ her, he _doesn’t want_ her, he _doesn’t want **her**_ , _he_ –

Joseph gasps. Shudders. Tears flooding into his eyes and mouth lifting into a smile of utter _joy_ as he _looks_ at her like a man seeing the sunrise for the first time.

And it feels like an eternity’s passed since she spoke to him but it must’ve been seconds, because the black is still washing over the Words on the inside of Joseph’s right forearm when she hears Burke – muffled and distant and so very unimportant because _He **wants** her_, he’s _happy_ , she’s not broken, not rejected, not _alone_ – bark out “ _Shit – !_ ” all high and sharp with terrified realization and then –

The world staggers to a crawl around her, like someone’s put it into slow-motion.

She sees Joseph’s joy turn to blind horror, and she turns slow like a bug caught in molasses; sees Burke draw his service weapon, bringing it up at _her_ , hears Whitehorse _scream_ out the marshal’s name, voice raw with horror and rage, feels a hand grab her right arm, sees another one reaching out to grab her left, hears voices screaming in agony and –

Turning towards the threat and reaching for her own piece, she sees the muzzle of Burke’s gun flash, feels something cold shove against her left shoulder just as unfamiliar hands try to pull her back and –

Whitehorse rushing past her, grappling for Burke’s gun as she stumbles against someone’s chest, arms closing around her, Burke’s gun flashing again and –

Whitehorse on the ground, writhing, hands soaked red against his stomach and –

Burke on the ground, Jacob Seed on top of him, fists soaked red as he slams them into Burke’s face again and again and again and –

Reality shudders around her like a glitching video tape.

Then everything _erupts_ into white heat and agony.

 _“Boss!”_ The scream rips its way out of her throat, blind horror shoving the blazing pain in her shoulder aside as she lunges, fighting to break free from Joseph’s arms, ignoring his desperate pleas as she tries to reach her sheriff.

Joseph does something complicated with his body, getting her pinned up against him and trying to immobilize her left arm while she screams and flails against his hold, an increasingly desperate flood of “please” and “you’re hurt” and “stop” and who knows what all else washing over her, as unreal and unimportant as anything that isn’t the sight of her sheriff bleeding out on the floor after he’d tried to protect her.

She nearly pulls free, shrieks in inarticulate frustration and _rage_ when she’s pulled back, stopped, Joseph wrapping his body around her, hissing something profane in a painfully strained voice before, still trying to wrestle her to the ground, he turns his head and starts barking orders. “Faith, the sheriff – John,” she nearly breaks free again, Joseph’s grip getting more and more slick around her left arm, and the next words rise to a fever pitch, “ _Help me!_ She’s – _**Faith,**_ ” the sudden swell of _rage_ in Joseph’s voice – no, not rage, _Wrath_ , for them it’d be Wrath – actually cuts through the shock and the terror of Robin’s waking nightmare, locking her body down tight as Joseph _snarls_ , “the sheriff, _now_!” And then, the moment of stillness all her body needed to shut down, Robin’s legs give out and all that Wrath bleeds out of Joseph as he gasps, pulls her closer and sinks to the ground with her, murmuring at her soothingly as he tries to soften her collapse.

Robin shudders, gasps, vision whiting out for a second as the pain forces its way to the forefront of her mind.

The world starts to filter back to her a second later, John Seed kneeling in front of her, working frantically at her shoulder while Joseph holds her close and babbles into her ear, “Ssh, ssh, it’s alright.” 

There's someone’s whimpering, crying out brokenly for the sheriff in a low, slurring voice. Somewhere around the point that Joseph starts nuzzling and kissing soothingly against her temple she realizes it’s _her_ making the noise.

“It’s alright, Angel, he’s going to be alright. It’s –”

Something _roars_ from beyond the doors of the church, screams and shouts snapping a portion of her mind back to reality, a new rush of terror and horror overriding everything, sending her lunging for the door, _screaming_ out for her partners now.

Hands grapple for her, John snarling, cursing, “ _Damn it_ – Joe, you need to hold her _still_ , I _can’t_ –”

And then Joseph’s wrapping himself around her and yelling “Jacob – _Jacob!_ _Get_ them back under _control_. Make certain that the deputies are _taken **care** of_ before -”

And then Jacob Seed’s in her line of sight, hands slick with blood and gore, flecks of bone and what she’s pretty fucking sure is brain matter stuck in the blood, on his clothes, all the way up on his face, and he looks like something out of a horror film, like a nightmare come to life, and he’s stopped halfway to the doors, _staring_ at her, expression unreadable but there’s _something_ in his eyes…

And then Jacob’s turning, stalking towards the doors, and Joseph’s voice is washing over her again. “-ere. There now, don’t be afraid. It’s alright, Angel, everything’s alright. Finally.” There’s a shaky, choked laugh in her ear, tears soaking into her hair where Joseph’s pressed his face against it, fingers carding beautifully through her hair as she shudders and collapses back against him, exhaustion sapping her again. “ _Finally_ everything is _right_.” Trembling lips brush against her temple, against her cheek, down against the corner of her mouth, fingers tracing – almost _worshipfully_ – across the Words encircling her numb left hand and wrist. “You’re _here_.” Joseph sobs against her skin, the sound so charged with joy and relief as it washes over her that she echoes it with one of her own. “You’re finally _home_.”

She can’t help but to turn her head – slowly and painfully – to look at him.

Joseph’s eyes burn straight through her.

Somewhere in all the pandemonium Joseph’s lost his glasses, leaving his eyes open and unguarded and perfectly, heartbreakingly blue. They’re glistening, flooded with tears of pure joy, looking at her with so much _love_ that it makes her dizzy.

“I knew.”

She stares at him, mind slowly coming to the realization that he’s speaking again.

Joseph leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against hers, perfect blue eyes swallowing her, pulling her down and deeper into him. “I knew He would not give you to us, give us the promise of you to lift us from despair, only to withhold you in the end.” A trembling hand, tacky with what can only be her own blood, runs gently over her cheek as Joseph’s eyes fall rapturously closed in praise, his breath whispering out against her lips as he sighs, “I knew. I _knew_.”

“I think that…” the new voice slips into the space between Robin and Joseph, trembling with nerves but still warm and smooth, like maple syrup and an open fire on a winter morning, the words not directed _at_ her but sinking down into her all the same, pulling a blissful keen from somewhere deep inside her. There’s a low gap from beside her, it distantly registering that there’s a pair of warm hands – trembling now – tying something off on her left shoulder and the beautiful voice – when it comes again – is thick and rough with barely restrained desperation and _need_. “Joseph, I’ve…” John Seed stutters, all the courtroom finesse and polish that she’s heard about stripped clean away, “I’ve got her stabilized but… sh- she still needs an actual doctor…”

The world swims for a moment when she turns, wobbly and marionette-like, like John’s tugging her strings gently until she’s looking at him, staring in his perfect baby blue eyes and his pretty face – _Why are they all so **pretty**? Seriously, that’s **cheating**_ – and he’s staring back at her, looking at her like she’s the moon and the stars and an actual fucking unicorn, like he’s not entirely sure she’s _real_ , but like he thinks it’ll kill him to look away, and her heart is thundering in her chest and through her skin because he’s looking at her and his lips are parting and he’s going to –

Two fingers rest over John’s lips. “No John,” Joseph’s voice is impossibly soft and tender, the gentle sympathy not detracting from the firm _command_ in the slightest, and it just makes everything so much worse. “Not here. Not now.”

Baby blue eyes dart away from her, staring up at Joseph in tortured dismay – a sentiment that Robin apparently shares, if the distressed, plaintive mewl that rips its way out from her throat is any indication. John’s eyes flick back to her then back again to his brother, hummingbird quick, face a picture of desperation as he pleads, _begs_ , “Joseph –”

“No.” The command is unequivocal now, hard and cold and just a touch sharp at being questioned, and John and Robin flinch and whimper in unison at it.

That cuts through the anger, Joseph’s face going soft and gentle again as his hand shifts, cupping John’s cheek. “No, John,” the tender warmth in his voice sweeps over them, sinking down into their skins and soothing away the sting.

Honestly, the whole situation’s really disorienting.

Robin hears someone whimper – the sound broken and pained and confused, and it takes John’s eyes flying back to her and Joseph’s arm pulling her in closer against his chest for her to realize that it was her again.

She feels like she really needs to stop doing that.

She also feels like she should probably be concerned... but at present she can’t quite remember _what_ she should be concerned _about_. So, instead, Robin just lolls her head back against Joseph’s shoulder and lets herself be held.

A gentle hand runs over her head, long fingers carding through her hair, feeling _so_ very good that Robin decides she made the right decision.

“Later,” Joseph’s voice is even _more_ wonderful like this – soft and low above her, rumbling through his body and into hers, like she’s snuggled up against a giant, purring cat. She tucks herself closer, and there’s a shuddering, blissful sigh from all around her. “Be patient, John. You want this moment… you want the _Words_ to be _right_.” The fingers trail downwards, running down over her skin – soft as silk and warm like sunlight – to pet and trace over the Words on her left hand and wrist. The next words are even softer, colored with the faintest touch of regret as Joseph sighs, “Believe me.”

There’s an abortive sound from above her, urging her eyes open – when had she closed them? – and giving her the view of John, face fixed in a dismayed, resigned pout as Joseph’s thumb runs gently over his lips. Then, like he can feel her looking at him, John’s eyes fly back to her and –

Oh.

Oh!

_Oh._

The heat, the longing and _desire_ and _**adoration**_ in John’s eyes rushes over her, Robin feeling herself flush as she suddenly remembers the Words hidden away under her clothes, nestled under her collarbone and over her heart and –

And yes.

Yes, Robin would very much agree that those Words should be saved for later.

And for somewhere much, _much_ more private.

John’s pupils dilate, black swallowing up that beautiful blue, a flush sweeping over his own cheeks as his lips part beneath Joseph’s thumb. Their eyes lock, and for a second Robin thinks that he’s going to do it, going to disobey his brother and –

John surges forward, pushes past Joseph’s hand, his own hands coming up to either side of her face, cradling and running his thumbs over her skin as he presses their lips together, kissing her like his life depends on it.

The kiss is desperate, hungry, consuming like wildfire, and she can practically _taste_ the meaning, the promise behind it, the way that it’s _killing_ John to not Resolve their bond then and there, so he just keeps kissing her just to _survive_.

And Robin?

Robin kisses him right the fuck back, throws everything she has into it, returns all that desperation and promise measure for measure, because – she’s fairly certain – if she doesn’t she might _actually_ die.

There’s something pressing at the back of her mind and she feels like it’s important, but then John’s pulling away from her and she has just enough time to sob at the loss before he’s back, kissing her, stealing what little breath she has away, making the pain and cold and confusion and that niggling little voice fade away, nothing in the world so important as her _soulmate_ , as _not_ being alone anymore, as being _wanted_ and _loved_ and _finally_ everything’s –

They pull apart, just a touch, vision starting to go dark and fuzzy around the edges, and just as they’re about to come together again something _stops_ them – gently pulls Robin back while a firm hand grips John’s shoulder and _holds_ , and John nearly _sobs_ , eyes flying back to Joseph with agonized frustration and _need_.

Joseph stares back, long suffering fondness that’s just tinged with growing impatience as he sighs, “John. _Doctor_.”

There’s a flicker of confusion on John’s beautiful face, followed by a rapid-fire rush of recollection, shock, and guilt. Then John pulls back, gets his feet under him, freezes, and darts back to press one more, beautiful, painfully tender kiss to her lips before throwing himself to his feet and rushing out through the church doors.

And then it’s just Robin and Joseph, curled up together on the floor.

The world’s tilting and spinning drunkenly around her, the cage of Joseph’s arms and chest very probably the only thing keeping her even partly vertical, and the heat radiating from him – from his lean body and the gentle hand running worshipfully over her skin – is making everything fuzzier, contrasting with the paralyzing cold that’s she’s just realized has locked her body down and is pulling her closer and closer to sleep. There’s still something pressing on her mind, the little voice rearing again now that John’s not around to shut it up, but it’s getting harder to focus on anything but how warm and comfortable Joseph’s embrace is, how uncannily _good_ it feels as his lips brush over her skin and whisper to her, and she can’t even really make out what he’s saying at the moment but it doesn’t seem to matter.

Nothing really seems to matter, and she kind of feels like that’s a bad thing.

She’s trying to think about that – trying to think about _anything_ , really – when a new voice – male, older, currently unidentifiable but intensely familiar, raw with pain and distress, weak and faded as it starts trying to cry out, the sound cutting through the fog around her, lancing down to stoke her adrenaline and send her body twitching and shaking as it tries to lift itself back up.

Warm hands close tighter around her, pulling her back closer against Joseph, her soulmate’s voice rumbling out tensely as he holds her, tries to settle her back down, and a second later there’s a blurry shape materializing in front of her, vision slowly coming into focus on a strange woman, white dress and dainty hands stained red, skin a sickly gray and expression stricken as she reaches out to hand Joseph something, hovering nearby for a moment after he turns back to Robin, then fading away when the implicit dismissal sinks in.

Joseph breathes something into her hair, soothing and hushing her as tender kisses whisper against her temple, and slowly she feels her head turning towards him – once more a puppet on a string.

Blue eyes swallow her, the already distant and fuzzy world around them fading into nothingness until there’s nothing left but Robin, Joseph, and the overwhelming love in his eyes.

She kind of feels like she should be saying something, but she can’t quite think of _what_ ; and, anyway, she’s not entirely sure she _can_ speak at the moment, so instead she just lets her head fall forward, her forehead coming to rest against Joseph’s, a small, shaky inhale sweeping through him as she does.

He’s talking again, it hits her, and she knows she should probably be concerned that the words aren’t making sense. But she can’t quite manage that, so instead she just lets the sound of his voice sweep over and sink into her and –

Oh.

Oh, Joseph’s a really good kisser too.

A _really_ good kisser, _wow_.

When he pulls back – too damn soon, no matter what her lungs say – and presses their heads together again, her brain finally seems to get its act together again, making proper sense of his soft, perfect voice. “You…” A trembling breath shivers over her skin, Joseph’s pupils swallowing up his beautiful blue eyes as he stares at her, dazed.

Fuck but her soulmates are all so pretty, it’s downright _unfair_.

She tilts her head a little, chasing after his lips, and she lets out a displeased growl when he pulls back reluctantly. Joseph breathes a soft laugh, a tender, slightly lopsided smile lighting up his face, making him look breathtakingly _human_ for a moment as his fingers trace over her face and his eyes keep on swallowing her up. “You,” he sighs again, “are _dangerous_.” One of his fingers strays near enough to her mouth and she catches it, pulls it between her lips with a contented purr, and Joseph’s eyes go dark with _hunger_ for a moment. Then with a rough, strained chuckle he slips his finger free – to her utter frustration – and uses it to tuck a recalcitrant lock of hair behind her ear. “The sweetest temptation,” his voice is kind of distant and echo-y, running lazy sparks and gentle raindrops along her skin as he stares at her in a mix of desire, amusement, exasperation, and wonder. Then, slowly and impossibly soft, his fingers trail down to her left hand and wrist, tracing and petting and encircling the newly black Words there and –

“And you’re _ours_.”

His voice washes over her like a river, wave after wave of sheer bliss sinking into her from the _love_ in his voice.

It’s heady. Overwhelming. Fairy tale perfect and too good to be true in how Joseph’s casting out her every childhood fear and replacing them all with assurances of love and _belonging_.

Again it hits her – somewhere underneath it all – that she’s forgetting something very, _very_ important, a sickly little flicker that keeps trying to break to the surface of her thoughts. She wants to ignore it. Wants to ignore anything that isn’t Joseph. But the sensation isn’t going away, is trying to get _stronger_ actually, and maybe if she can figure out what’s wrong she can make it stop and go back to feeling happy.

Maybe Joseph can help her figure it out…

If Robin can get her mouth and tongue and vocal chords and everything to cooperate maybe she can ask him.

She manages to focus in on Joseph’s face again, and maybe she _doesn’t_ need to say anything, because he’s got a look of quiet concern on his face like he knows something’s wrong and –

Why’s he giving her flowers?

A gentle hand runs through her hair as the little white blossoms sway through the air before her, their scent wafting upwards, sticky sweet and powerful, so much so that it should be unpleasant. And yet she can’t help but find it… soothing. Comforting. Gentle and welcoming as warm blankets and sweet music on a cold day, and the sense of something wrong bleeds away until it’s all she can do to keep her eyes open.

Joseph laughs softly, the beautiful sound sending sparks of light along her skin and into the air – _literally… that’s new…_ – as his lips brush against her temple again.

“It’s alright. Let it help you.” The world’s fading around her, wisps of cloud and rays of light dancing lazily, but all that really means is that there’s nothing to distract her from her soulmate’s voice, or the perfect blue of his eyes, piercing through her and coiling into her soul, drowning her in a flood of love and desire and possession. “Go to sleep, Angel,” he leans in, lips brushing against hers, and she can’t stop her eyes from falling shut when his forehead comes to rest on hers. “And wake again in the light of Eden.” A shiver runs from Joseph and into her, distant as consciousness fades away, a whisper brushing against her lips as he sighs, “Wake to _us_ , my love.”

The world falls away…

“Wake in paradise,”

Until there’s only him…

“where we will be yours,”

Only Joseph…

“just as you are ours.”

_Only…_

“All ours.”

_Yours…_

“Always.”

“ _No one is going to take you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Intense Emotional Conflict/Turmoil, Violence, Dubious Consent, Altered Mental States (Shock), Nonconsensual Drug-use, and Possessive Behaviors.
> 
> _In which Resolution Shock happens, Robin doesn't want to Walk Away, and things turn out very differently._
> 
> _So remember how in 'Sign with Poison' Robin mentioned that there was always some pants-backwards moron who tried leveraging a soulmate against criminals and how it always ended super-badly and resulted in lots of blood, pamphlets, and training seminars? *sudden shouting* Hey Burke, the zipper's supposed to go in the front! Dumbass._
> 
> _Also, Joseph? Have you noticed that the only positive interactions you have with Robin occur when she's in an altered mental state? Yeah? You should **fix** that. Preferably soon, for her sake. Also, can't believe I have to say this, STOP DRUGGIN HER! Seriously._
> 
> _Well, hope y'all enjoyed this first foray into madness, and I'll see you next Friday! Bye!_
> 
> Title of full work inspired by - _Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.'_ (P.G. Wodehouse)


	2. Found - Wanting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Alright y'all, it's AU-ception take two! Let's see what Mr. The Baptist is up to, shall we?_

Robin comes to her senses in a world on fire.

Flames lick over her skin, force their way into her mouth and down her throat and into her lungs. Her eyes fly open and the flames flood into them, searing and blinding her. She tries to struggle, to escape the fire, but the flames have burned her limbs, locked her muscles, and she can’t pull away from the hands that hold her inside the inferno.

In short, her present situation is pretty fucking awful.

That thought – less a thought and more a primal instinct, really – is rattling around somewhere between her barely conscious mind and her increasingly assertive lizard-brain when she’s suddenly pulled upright, choking and gasping and retching in the sickly sweet air. The world, barely visible beyond the thick clouds and exploding stars in her eyes, is whirling and tilting like a fair-ride from hell, and without the hands digging into her arms – burned with the cold and numb as Novocain – she’d probably topple right back into the river.

She thinks she should probably care about some of that.

She can’t quite manage to, though.

And then she’s moving, or else the world is, and all those pains seem even less important because –

“Not this one.”

Fire blooms in her skin – under her left collarbone, over her _heart_ – melting the frozen pain there and spreading outwards, soaking through her skin and spreading through her blood and settling down into the marrow of her bones, too bright and too hot and too intense so that it might actually kill her, but all the conscious part of her mind registers is that she’d _rather_ die that lose that fire.

It burns through her, burns the coils of fog and storm of stars from her eyes, and Robin looks up into the perfect blueness of her soulmate’s eyes.

John Seed stares down at her, distant and haughty, cold under a veneer of charismatic polish, measuring and weighing her in a glance and –

She _wants_.

Wants to feel _safe_.

Wants to be _loved_.

_Wants_ that fairytale ending that the world claims is theirs by right.

She _wants_ her _soulmate_.

Robin can feel Joseph’s Words around her left hand and wrist – cutting and coiling and clawing, a cold burning brand that holds her away, sets her apart, makes her the _enemy_ , the _other_ , _not ours_.

But now…

Now, with the water’s bitter cold biting through her clothes and into her skin, with her throat and lungs flayed raw, with the world spinning and butterflies and flowers dancing through the air amidst the mists and sparks of pure light… now she can feel _John’s_ Words as well, the ashy gray promise of them burning and warming and claiming where they’re nestled over her heart, and she _**wants**_.

She wants to fall into his arms, to press her face into his neck, curl into his chest, let him hold her and chase away the fear and the pain and the cold, the lifetime of confusion and doubt and separation that Joseph’s Words have cursed her to. She wants him to cast all the fear and all the loneliness away, to drown them in the river and tell her it was all a _mistake_ – tell her she’s not broken, not worthless, not _wrong_. To tell her she’s _wanted_. To tell her she’s _loved_.

Just this once she wants to be selfish.

Just this once she wants something for _her_.

She _wants_.

She wants _**everything**_.

He’s right in front of her now – John Seed, larger than life and a thousand times more beautiful, his painted hands reaching for her and his smile as sweet as poison and –

Her hand lifts into the air and John freezes.

The tips of her fingers brush against his skin, feather light on the cruel carving there, and his breath catches in his throat. The rest of her hand follows, palm pressing against his heartbeat and fingers spreading outwards, and all the polish and control fades from John’s face as he stares at her in overwhelmed bewilderment.

Robin’s eyes fall to where her skin meets his – to the scars that cut too deep and lie lie _lie_. She wants to rub them off his skin. Wants to press her lips to them and kiss it better. Wants to sink into him, to pull him into her, wants to see if _somehow_ the two of them can find some degree of comfort, of redemption, of _completeness_ together, to take each other’s hurting and broken pieces and make something new and whole and beautiful.

She _**wants**_.

She can feel John pull himself back from the surprise and confusion, feel his muscles coil and tense under her fingers – feel the faint shiver that runs through his skin – and her eyes follow it upwards.

She can see the surprise and confusion disappear, hidden away as the mask of polished control falls back into place. She can see the brief struggle, the subjugation of the hunger, the _desire_ in his eyes that is strangled and shoved away, a sharp flare of frustration (a grounded child grudgingly dropping his favorite toy, an addict staggering past his forbidden vice) at the deprivation marking its passing. She sees him take the threads of that frustration and weave them into his haughty mask, his eyes going cold and cruel and superior, his lips curling into a lofty, mocking sneer as he looks down on her, condescending amusement and smug self-righteousness emblazoned on his features as one of his painted hands reaches for hers, as his lips part and –

The fingers of her other hand brush against his cheek, and for a second time John freezes

All the cruelty and haughtiness, all the cold pride and sick hunger bleeds out of him in an instant, leaving a John Seed who stands unmasked before her – open and aching and vulnerable, lips parted and trembling in a silent gasp, eyes wide and deep as the river itself, staring down at her with desperation and longing, frightened and pleading and heartbreakingly hopeful as a lost little boy, and so, so perfectly, impossibly _blue_.

_He really is beautiful._

Her fingers brush over his skin, tracing gently up to his cheekbone, following the graceful curve of it down before tracing back upwards, feather-soft over the bridge of his nose, touch shivering lightly with empathy over the slight crookedness of the long healed break, then easing down and down to whisper over his still parted, desperately trembling lips.

The second she touches his lips John gasps – a soft, broken sound, raw with shock and pleasure and yearning, that settles as warm and delicious as a first kiss into the Words over her heart. She shivers – the hunger of the sound sweeping over and through her, soft and warm and heady, blissfully caressing her from the inside out, drowning her in want and need so deep that it’s all she can do to not _jump_ him then and there.

Her eyes lift from the beautiful, parted lips (fuck but she wants to kiss him so much it _hurts_ ), rising back up to meet his gaze.

John’s staring at her, big blue eyes wider than ever, so confused and so full of the same _want_ and _need_ that’s pulsing through her skin, but so _lost_ in not fully realizing _why_.

_Is it possible to drown in eyes?_

The hand that was coming up to grab her, to crush and control, to declaim and deny, finally makes contact – resting against the back of her hand, soft and gentle at first, tentative, then slowly moving closer and closer, enclosing her smaller, scarred hand with his larger painted one, pressing her hand closer against his chest, the hummingbird beat of his heart thrumming through her. His other hand’s moving too, a feather-light touch against the crook of her elbow that slowly becomes a grasp, shaking and uncertain and confused as John just _holds_ , staring down deeper and deeper into her eyes, lost and confused, brow slowly furrowing again as he stares and –

In the distance – beyond the curling mists and dancing lights and _John_ – someone screams; a high, raw, visceral sound, ugly in its terror and agony.

The sound cuts into her, tears through the hungry warmth and pierces deep, sets something inside her rearing up, hot and savage and _red_ \- a call, a drive, a _need_ that she _has to_ –

_His_ voice rings out again – a wave of cool, rushing water that douses the fire, drowns out all the ugliness, and she wants to sing with joy at the very sound even as she wants to _scream_ with rage and frustration and despair and _need_ , because he’s talking again, the clarion beauty of her soulmate’s voice sweeping over her, but it’s still not _for her_.

She forces her eyes open ( _when did she close them?_ ) and stares up at him through the tears ( _when did she start crying?_ ) and her lips part to unleash all her years of torment, of confusion and fear, of desperate hope and the blind despair of abandonment and –

Blue eyes snap down to hers, still brimming with confusion but… but slowly alit with a steadily growing sense of suspicion, of anticipation and satisfaction and raw, possessive _hunger_. And, just as all that hits her, the hand on her elbow grips just _too_ tight, pulls her a step closer, holds her in place as her soulmate speaks again – the _words_ still wrong, the _Words_ still not _hers_ – and his beautiful lips curl up, beam down on her indulgently, a pretty warmth that doesn’t reach his eyes, looking _down_ on her with understanding that he _doesn’t_ have and –

Someone screams again and it’s too much.

The distant pain and terror hits against the warmth and hunger and need, already warring with the false understanding and all the –

– fog rolls over her, floods into her mouth, chokes her nose with its sickly sweetness, slips delicate claws under her eyelids and deep deep deep into her eyes, forcing its way inside her and cutting the strings that hold her up and –

She’s cold.

She’s tired.

She _hurts_.

She’s scared.

She _wants_.

She opens her eyes, looks up into the eyes of her soulmate and – crying silently – she smiles.

_**“Have you come to take me home?”** _

The Words hang in the air – soft and lilting and so scared to hope.

The world is frozen, still and silent – and at its center stand John and Robin, motionless, breathless, eyes locked and –

John _shatters_.

He draws in a breath like a drowning man finally surfaced, eyes going wide and wider as the mask falls, pieces flaking away and leaving him –

He smiles.

He’s crying.

John _smiles_ at her, bright and beautiful as the sunrise, tears streaming down from his perfectly blue eyes, body wracked with tremors as he gasps and sobs and smiles, as he pulls her closer, clutches her hand tighter and tighter to his heart. The hand at her elbow pulls back, rises up to hover over her cheek, the hesitant touch that follows soft and gentle and terrified and desperate, a man reaching towards a dream, wanting to touch and catch and keep it, terrified of shattering it, _needing_ to touch it, needing, _needing_ , _**needing**_ –

Oh.

Needing _her_.

John stares at her, touches her, holds her, smiling and crying and –

_**“Yes.”** _

The Word hits her like the first light of dawn and the full weight of the ocean.

_**“Yes, Sweetheart, of course.”**_ John gasps, a shuddery little laugh of pure _joy_ falling from his lips, smile brighter than the sun and tears still falling as he releases her hand to curl an arm behind her back and pulls her closer, the other hand soft and warm against her cheek, his thumb brushing the tears from her eye and long, tender fingers threading into her hair.

It’s _perfect_.

John breathes another laugh, the sound shivering over her skin, warm and bright and beautiful, pulling a sigh of pure _bliss_ from her, and when John gasps and pulls her even closer she rises to meet him, melts into the press of his skin against hers, the feel and smell and taste of their mingling breath, the purifying rain of his tears against her wet face. _**“I’m…”**_ John shudders, holding her close, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob momentarily breaking off his Words, _**“so sorry it took me so long to find you.”**_

She breathes him in, one hand still pressed against the frantic beat of his heart while the other – fallen at some point to rest on his shoulder – simply _holds_. “I’m right here.” The words feel strange, too big and clumsy and run together, her tongue slow and heavy as her thoughts. She tries to shake some of the fog from her head, from her mouth, her nose knocking against his as she does so. Her head is spinning, and when she tries to take a step back the arm around her waist turns to steel, a sudden stop before she’s pulled closer than ever, a sharp catch of breath from above opening her eyes and pulling them back to meet John’s gaze. She blinks up at him, trying to think past all the fog, even as she just wants to fall into his arms and melt away. But she… “I’ve been right here the whole time…” he… “you didn’t see me…” they… “…you left me…” _don’t_ … “I thought you didn’t –”

The arm around her closes so tightly she _gasps_ for breath, the hand on her face trembling, and there – in the ocean depths of John’s perfectly blue eyes – she can see his heart _break_.

“We were wrong.” His forehead presses against hers again, eyes and voice raw with pain. She barely hears it – or the words that follow – over the rush of shock that admission brings. “We should have known you… should have realized –” His breath catches, skin bleaching to a sickly pallor as something flashes behind his wide eyes. “I’m sorry.” The broken whisper barely reaches her. “I’m so, so sorry, Sweetheart.” His fingers curl into her hair, eyes falling shut and features twisting with shame, and if he pulls her any closer they’re going to cease to be two separate individuals ( _which, honestly, is not sounding all that bad at the moment_ ). “I’m sorry. You _never_ should have been hurt or scared because of us.”

She can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but stare up at her soulmate – here, holding, adoring and accepting, giving her everything she’s ever wanted and crushing a lifetime of fear under the force of the love she’s hoped and prayed so desperately for.

_Don’t be a dream. Please, **please** don’t be a dream. I can’t… please be real, please I **can’t** …_

Robin tilts her head, just a touch. Nuzzles gently against his skin as her fingers curl lightly into his silk covered shoulder, breath whispering over his skin and entwining around his sharp inhale as she sighs, “Just… don’t do it again.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then, sudden and bright as the dawn, John squeezes her tight and _laughs_ – the sound wet and quaking and brilliantly, beautifully unguarded and unrestrained, _pure_ and artless in its joyous _relief_. “I won’t.” The sound of his voice – words dancing through the laughter – sinks into her skin, sweeping through her in waves of cool water and rays of warm light, drawing another little cry of bliss from her as John’s lips press against her temple. “I promise, Sweetheart; I won’t ever hurt you again.”

Something in the back of her mind rears up at those words, a flash of something cold and tired and sharp. But an instant later it’s gone, fallen back beneath the layers of soft, warm light that are rolling from John’s voice, down through her skin and her blood, all the way down and into her heart.

She sighs, nods slowly against his skin and into the press of his lips, and when another surge of warm light hits her – makes her head spin, full and fuzzy with relief and joy and all the fog – she lets it fall down to rest on John’s shoulder, holding and being held and _breathing_ him in.

John makes a low sound – rumbling up from his chest and into her – and then there’s a gentle pull, a slow shift, and they’re moving, John’s arm around her waist warm and steady where it holds her up and pressed close against his side, the other falling from her face to her left hand – squeezing it once before taking it, lifted from over his heart and held in his as he guides her from the river and onto the shore.

The world blurs around her, fog and hanging sparks of light rushing past her, shadows of figures flickering and fluttering at the edges of her vision.

She’s hovering on the edge of sleep when they stop moving, just for a moment, her eyes flickering open and an unhappy whimper breaking from her lips when John pulls away. He’s back instantly, brushing a hand over her hair and murmuring apologies against her skin, then pulling slowly away again – albeit with one hand now holding hers. Moments later something drapes over her shoulders – something that’s soft and warm and smells like _John_ , and she sighs a little moan and snuggles deeper into it. There’s a hungry little sigh, and then she’s being guided – John half lifting her – inside of a car before John slides in beside her, arm reaching around her shoulders even as she’s turning, curling and pressing herself up against his side.

There’s a low rumble as the car shudders to life, the vibrations and the hum sweeping through her, right alongside the gentle fog and sparks of light, all of the sensations blurring together beautifully.

All completely pedestrian compared to the feel of her soulmate’s arms holding her close, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the heartbreakingly perfect sound and sense of his voice curling around and sinking into her.

It’s all really nice.

The world outside the car – outside John’s arms – starts to blur past them, the sound and smell of water fading away, and something starts scratching at the back of her mind.

“Where’re we going?”

There’s moment of silence – long enough that she wonders if she just imagined speaking.

Then John squeezes her closer, a gentle kiss pressing against her temple before he responds, voice soft and rapturously happy, choked and thick with emotion. “We’re going home, Sweetheart. I’m taking you _home_.”

Something shivers through her. “Home…”

Her fingers curl back up, running over his skin, tracing the scars and drinking in the fluttering beat of his heart. Again she feels his muscles tense at the touch, a breathy moan lilting through the air, a shiver running through him as his hand comes back to rest over hers. She feels her head move – pulling back just enough so that she’s looking up at him, up to where he’s staring back at her in wonder and adoration, and he’s just so _fucking **pretty**_ and –

One of his hands rises up to her chest (tender and warm and firm where it presses over her Words, still pulsing with euphoria), gently stopping her inches from his lips and pulling a low keen of frustration and _need_ from her.

She presses against his hand, keening again when it doesn’t budge, and stares up at him in desperation. “I want…”

For his own part, John looks like he’s being slowly ripped in two. “I know.” His lips twitch convulsively, a pained huff of laughter getting half choked in his throat, and when his eyes open again there’s so much raw desire in them that she can _feel_ the pain his refusal is causing him. “ _Believe_ me, I _know_. But let’s…” he huffs another laugh, the warding hand slowly trailing up to cup her jaw, thumb running comforting circles – comforting for them both, most likely – against her skin as he smiles at her, still pained, still wanting, but slowly turning lopsided and fond as he sighs. “Let’s revisit that idea when you’re _sober_ , hmm?”

Yeah, okay…

No.

That is _not_ what she wants.

But, from the looks of things, it doesn’t seem like John’s going to change his mind.

So, eyes burning slightly, whimpering soft and high in the back of her throat, she curls back against his side and buries her head into his neck, trying not to feel open and empty and raw all of a sudden, hollowed out from the latest rejection – however temporary. She tries to breathe, tries to hold on to the warmth, tries to hold on to him, tries not to let all the same old fears come rushing back in – invisible fingers hooking under her skin and trying to pull her back down into the loneliness and the terror and the –

John’s arms wrap around her, pulling her closer and closer and running soothingly over her skin, his lips pressing down against her skin and words and sounds rushing out over and through her, pushing the warm light and cool water down into her Words, wrapping her up safe and tight and pulling her back to him, and suddenly it’s all she can do to not break down sobbing in his arms because…

Because…

Because he _does_ want her.

Because she’s _not_ alone.

Because she’s loved.

“Of course you are.” John’s voice surrounds her again, sinking through the shock ( _I said that out loud?_ ) and shoving back at the hollow darkness. A wave of – shame, guilt, embarrassment, _relief_ – emotion rushes over her, tears finally starting to push past her eyes as she clings to him. John just pulls her even closer, his own voice raw as he murmurs, “More than _anything_.” She feels the press of his head against hers. “ _You_ are _**everything**_.”

And then he laughs again, bright and beautiful and heartbroken as he holds her close, holds her while his words reach out and take hold of all her broken pieces and jagged edges and pull them back, the adoration in them slowly trying to knit the pieces together, the _worship_ in his voice rising higher and higher and just barely drowning out the deep rush of shame that she wants to reach and pull from his heart. Just high enough that, amidst everything, she can feel herself start to _hope_ again.

“You are wanted and you are loved and you are _ours_.” His voice trembles and quakes and cracks, tears falling from his eyes and landing on her skin like rain. “And I will damn well _prove_ that to you every day until you believe it,” he laughs and sobs all at once, lips whispering against her skin, “and then I’ll keep proving it every day after that, too.”

Everything is perfect, warm and soft and beautiful, all the light and love and all the belonging she’s ever wished and hoped and prayed for being handed to her, all wrapped up in John’s arms and hands, his voice and his words, his perfectly blue eyes and the press of his lips. It’s perfect and she wants it all, wants _more_ , wants it to never end.

The fog, however, seems to have different ideas.

She can feel her eyes growing heavier and heavier, her head lolling and nodding lazily against John’s shoulder, her fingers slowly losing the strength to touch and to _hold_. She can feel the first pulls of slumber tugging at her, pulling her away from John even as she’s wrapped safely in his arms. And John notices – pulls his coat tighter around her shoulders and shifts so that her head falls gently against his chest, runs soothing hands over her and murmurs and hums comfortingly in her ear – and he isn’t afraid, but she –

She is.

Just a little.

So, with what little strength she’s holding back from the fog, Robin tilts her head up to look at John. “Don’t leave me? Please?”

And John looks down at her and –

And he smiles.

He smiles, and tears shine in his eyes, and slowly – gently, careful so as to not disturb her – he tilts his head down to whisper a kiss against her forehead. “Never again, Sweetheart.” His lips linger for a moment before he pulls back, blue eyes an ocean of love and devotion and desire, deeper than anything and only for her. He looks at her, everything falling away in the moment to let his pure, unadulterated love and devotion surge out and into her, voice quiet and heavy with sincerity washing over her like a baptism as he _promises_ , the words following her down into the calm black of sleep.

“I will never leave you, ever again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Non-Consensual Drug-Use, Allusions to Self-Hatred, Vague Allusions to Self-Harm, Vague Allusions to Torture and/or Murder, and Dubious-Consent.
> 
> _So John Seed is an **utter** bastard, but he takes and has always taken informed consent **very** seriously (well... *side-eyes main AU and previous chapter* so far as it involves inebriation/intoxication/etc, anyway). You cannot change my mind._
> 
> _In which the Bliss is a little stronger, Confession comes early, more than sins are Cleansed, and more is revealed than anyone expected._
> 
> _Or – in which John thought that The Deputy was just dtf and he’d figured out her **Sin** , only for the situation to be something else **entirely.**_
> 
> _(Meanwhile Joseph Seed – who ran into some button difficulties and was temporarily delayed while trying to get his shirt off – finally arrived at the river, only to discover John and The Deputy gone. He was then – eventually and with great confusion and terror – informed that they’d “kind of cuddled for a little, then sort of made out some, then Brother John took her to the car and drove off.” Joseph would proceed to call Jacob up and **dissolve** into complete hysterics about John’s “falling off the sex-wagon” for a **long** time before either of them thought to actually check and see if John was at the **Seed Ranch** to get answers.)_
> 
> _( **Meanwhile** meanwhile, Robin Baird eventually woke up sober, realized she was in bed with and being thoroughly spooned by John Seed, and responded by punching him in the face and – upon realize where she was – barricading herself in John’s ridiculously spacious and opulent bathroom, while said Seed brother tried desperately and to no avail to coax her out.)_
> 
> _So that was fun! And... depressingly, not that horrifying when stacked up against everything around it... Well, hope y'all enjoyed this part, and see you next week! ^x^/_


	3. Don't - Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Y'all knew this was coming. *dramatic gesture* Lo... the Ginger Wolfman cometh._

As first meetings with her soulmates go, Robin’s first face-to-face encounter with Jacob Seed is by far the nicest.

Since it involves her being pinned to a tree several inches off the ground after undergoing a _serious_ beatdown, Jacob’s massive hand slowly crushing her larynx and cutting off the blood flow to her head while his eyes and smile burn hungrily into her retinas, and one of her misappropriated partners whimpering and hyperventilating nearby, it’s a pretty decent example of how fucked up her life has gotten.

And then, of course, Jacob just has to throw a garnish on the whole shit sandwich by opening his damn mouth. 

_**“Nice try, kitten,”**_ his lips pull up further into a predatory, wolfish grin, teeth glittering inches from her face, _**“but this was always how this was going to end. So why don’t you stop playing soldier,”**_ his voice dips down into an amused purr, _**“and be a good girl for me.”**_

Somehow, between the blood loss and oxygen deprivation and the way those Words set the back of her neck on overwhelming, agonizing _fire_ … Robin finds the presence of mind to glare down at Jacob with all the unadulterated _hatred_ her body holds.

The eldest Seed brother just chuckles at her, the sound low and undaunted and more than a little bit amused, which is just _unfair_ because her body holds a metric shitton of hate. Jacob turns his gaze from her briefly, a visceral display of just how unimpressed he is, voice thick with cruel amusement as he drawls, “Who’d have guessed you were the _smart_ one in the precinct.” Something whimpers in the distance – _not Staci, that **can’t** be Staci_ – and when Jacob turns back to her his smile is all the crueler for it. “Not going to play nice, huh? Not going to behave yourself?” His head cocks to one side, almost teasingly, “You going to make me work for it, little girl?”

… 

_The fuck?_

Jacob powers on, apparently oblivious to the way her face – slow asphyxiation or no – is twisting with incredulity and growing squick. “That’s alright, Pup; I don’t mind. After all, any job worth doing is worth doing right. Besides,” Robin’s mind flitters feverishly, wondering if the weird, hungry purr is something the Seed brothers come by genetically or if they all get together and practice it, “the more you fight me, the _sweeter_ your inevitable submission will be.”

…

_No, seriously, the **fuck?** Isn’t **John** supposed to be the creepy registered sex-offender one?_

A sound actually forces itself through her lips, warped and strangled by the crushing pressure at her throat, and Jacob’s eyes narrow slightly, his smile going sharper and meaner. “You don’t think so? You _still_ think you can beat me? Even now?”

_Is he…?_

Instinctively Robin’s eyes flicker over to Staci, expression screaming “Does he _really_ not _realize_ …?” as best it can at her cringing partner.

That, however, just seems to piss Jacob off, and her eyes roll back in her head as the hand on her throat constricts further.

“Right then,” the purr’s dropped down into an almost primal growl, and it suddenly hits Robin that either the oxygen deprivation’s _really_ fucking with her head or else she _might_ just have a few kinks she’s only now finding out about, ‘cause something about the situation’s kind of getting her proverbial engines going. “If you’re so bored by all this,” Jacob continues, oblivious to her existential crisis and possible sexual awakening, “then I suppose we might as well get started now.” There’s the distinctive metallic slide of a large knife being slowly drawn from somewhere very near, which – uncomfortably enough – does nothing to calm her confused and excited ladyparts. Neither does the hot gust of breath and angry snarl in her ear, “Lesson. _One_ …”

_“No!”_

Her oblivious soulmate _snarls_ , pure rage roiling out towards whoever is interrupting their moment. Robin weirdly agrees with the sentiment.

“Peaches,” Jacob’s voice is barely level, sheer alpha rage threatening to warp it beyond comprehension, “Fucking. _Down_.”

Robin’s mind, slipping farther and farther away from her, is trying – not a little bewildered – to figure out when her cougar showed up and why exactly Jacob thinks he’s allowed to give her orders, when a desperate, broken voice breaks back in, a pleading whimper that cuts through the fog and starts tugging her mind back home. “Please sir, _please_ , please don’t.”

“What did I –”

“ _Please!_ ” Jacob’s hand loosens on her throat for a split second, his own sharp intake of breath nearly swallowing her desperate gasp. It’s not much, barely even a lungful. But it _is_ enough to snap her mind back to the present – to recognize the blind desperation in Staci’s voice, the utter _wrongness_ in how her friend clings to Jacob’s other arm, tears _streaming_ down his face as he _begs_. “ _Please_ , she’ll be good! Please, please don’t hurt her!” Desperate eyes turn to her, and something very familiar starts to rise in Robin’s chest. “Rook, you have to be _good_ , ok?! You’ve – R- Robby you’ve just got to _obey_ , got to surrender to the Path, and then everything will be ok! You’ve got to –”

The hand that’s not around her throat lashes out, fisting into Staci’s hair and wrenching his head back violently, and Robin feels a snarl build in her closed throat as he lets out a high, broken whimper.

“Giving out advice _you_ don’t even follow? And here I was thinking you’d _learned_.” The snarl is punctuated with a violent shake and Staci – who’d once stared down an entire biker gang by Robin’s side, armed with nothing but his service pistol and a smile – lowers his eyes, bares his neck, and whimpers like a well beaten dog. Jacob scoffs in disgust, shaking him once more before shoving him to the ground, “Looks like I’ll be running a refresher course and basic training at the same time.”

Her soulmate stands over Staci, still pinning her to the tree by her throat. Her partner is cringing, whimpering on the ground, helpless and broken. And Robin…

Robin’s vision turns _red_.

Possibly the one thing that anyone in Eden’s Gate has gotten right is John’s proclamation of her personal sin, and right now? Right now Deputy Robin Baird is so very _full_ of _**Wrath**_.

She’s spent _months_ dealing with all the cult bullshit – getting shot at and chewed on and punched and drugged and abducted and tortured and _all that_ and, to top it _all_ off, she’s had to deal with it all while knowing that the psychopaths driving the whole crazy train are her soulmates. And all the added shit _that_ brings with it. But dealt with it she damn well has. She’s done her job – done _more_ than her job – and she’s barely said two words on the whole subject, despite being _more_ than entitled. She has, thus far, managed to keep her shit together and not given into _any_ of her more personal urges regarding the Seed brothers.

But _now_?

No.

Fuck. No.

_No one_ picks on Staci Pratt – much less _hurts_ him – but _her._

And occasionally Joey.

And their sheriff, obviously.

But _mostly_ Robin.

There’s some portion of her brain screaming about oxygen deprivation and impulse control, about Resolution Shock and PTSD, about keeping her stupid, brain-damaged mouth _shut_ … but that doesn’t sound like advice that’ll protect Staci so she decides to ignore it.

Baring her teeth, she forces one of her hands off of Jacob’s, foregoing the – frankly hopeless – task of holding herself up to start clawing wildly at his forearm.

It gets his attention. 

She snarls again as cold eyes turn her way, his lips twisting up in that cruel, condescending smile again, and she forces out a string of strangled growls out at him.

That, of course, just makes his smile all the meaner. “What was that, kitten?” He tilts his head again, and she’s getting the deliberate impression that that’s his ‘oh look at you, you think you’re strong, how _adorable_ ’ gesture. Because of _course_ John’s not the only Seed to have one of those. His thumb moves slowly, rubbing against her throat in a sick parody of comfort and affection, and he _coos_ at her like she something small and fuzzy and stupid. “Did you have something you wanted to say?”

And then, because he’s as much of a self-righteous and overly confident _asshole_ as his brothers, Jacob relaxes his grip on her throat enough for her to _finally_ breathe again.

The frankly painful rush of air brings a rush of clarity with it – her higher cognitive faculties turning back on and reminding her why it is _imperative_ that she not speak to _any_ of the Seed brothers.

_But..._

But.

But he’s already _caught_ her, and escape or rescue before discovery is looking increasingly unlikely.

But he’s got _Staci_ , has _hurt_ him, _is_ hurting him, is going to hurt him _more_ unless Robin does something to stop it.

But at the moment she can’t stop thinking about the Words that are still _burning_ on the back of her neck – the Words that have been haunting her, _mocking_ her since she was six years old. The Words of this smug. _Patronizing. **Asshole**_. This self-satisfied _motherfucker_ who looks at everyone – who looks at _her_ – and sees something to be dominated, _possessed_ , played with and discarded or reshaped at his whim. Who doesn’t even have the _decency_ to realize that he sounds like something out of a cheap porno, like some fucking _creepy_ old man perving on some helpless little girl, and Robin’s had to _live_ with that – around her neck like a fucking _collar_ – for the past _sixteen **fucking** years_!

Well _fine_ then. 

He’s hurt her. _Humiliated_ her. And now she’s going to return the favor, consequences be _damned_.

Jacob wants to play kinky fuckers? 

Robin will damn well _play_ kinky fuckers.

She will play his game and she will _own_ his pervy old man ass at it.

So when Jacob’s grip on her throat relaxes, she chokes down a ragged breath, stares him dead in the eyes, and _speaks_.

_**“Harder, Daddy.”** _

Jacob’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head, jaw dropping and face contorting with shock as her _Words_ rush over him. He _recoils_ from her, left hand compulsively releasing her throat to clamp down on the inside of his right forearm, presumably over the blackening Words on his skin, and he stumbles back a step, staring down at her in utter _disbelief_.

For her own part, Robin’s a little preoccupied with desperately sucking in oxygen and not throwing up.

After a second she looks up at him from the heap she’s lying in on the forest floor, putting a hand down to stabilize herself, then flinching a little when it lands on something cold. Then something clicks into her brain and she freezes, staring up at her newly Resolved soulmate.

The forest around them is painfully quiet for a moment.

Then, shuddering, eyes still wide – and a little terrified, if that’s even possible for him – Jacob opens his mouth.

At which point Robin curls her fingers around the apple sized stone under her palm, grins sunnily up at him through her gasping breaths, and – shoving off as hard as she can with her legs and throwing the weight of her entire body into it – slams her rock-weighted fist _directly_ into Jacob’s dick.

In the words of her dear sweet Bubbe: _There’s not a tough alive who can’t be taught some manners by a good hit to the schlong._

Jacob makes a _sound_ that probably hasn’t been anywhere near his vocal chords since before puberty, turns a sickly gray from head to toe, and goes down like so much dead weight, eyes rolling back in his head.

He hasn’t even hit the ground before Robin’s stumbling to her feet, lurching forward, grabbing a dumbstruck Staci by his wrist, and hauling him up after her as she hauls _ass_ out of there and away from her convulsing soulmate.

_‘Well,’_ Robin thinks to herself sometime later, tearing through the forest in a mad dash, making pretty damn good time now that Staci’s running scared by her side rather than being dragged along behind her, _‘that could’ve gone better.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Off-screen Assault, Physical Violence, Threats of Violence, Probably Unintentional Usage of Misogynistic Language, Probably Unintentional D/s Undertones, Unintentional Erotic Asphyxiation, Off-screen Torture/Brainwashing, Threats of Torture/Brainwashing, Implied Stockholm Syndrome, Unintentional Sexual Assault/Sexually Suggestive Language, Unintentional Emotional Abuse, Jacob Seed's Wolf Fetish, and Nonconsensual CBT. I'm not sorry.
> 
> _In which a battle of fists becomes a battle of wills, loyalties are tested and proved, old wounds run deep, and little things prove to have great impact._
> 
> _Or, in which Jacob Seed thinks he's staring in a Mad Men/Most Dangerous Game fusion, Staci isn't having fun, and Robin is 120% DONE with everything (while simultaneously dealing with Inconvenient Feelings and Sensations [TM])._
> 
> _I enjoyed this one. I enjoyed this one A LOT. Just... just Jacob. Jacob, boo, why are you? And reprieves for Staci. And **this girl**. Robin Clancy Baird, ya'll – making poor life decisions and scandalizing bitches since always. So much fun. XD_
> 
> _Incidentally, here’s a pretty good reenactment of Robin and Jacob’s interaction, circa "A sound actually forces itself through her lips […]" – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdaDlNlsGII_
> 
> _Welp, hope y'all enjoyed this bit, and I'll see you next Friday! Until then enjoy thinking about the reactions Jacob would've gotten from his unit when **these** Words appeared, and then try not to think about how all/most of those people would die a few years later in an event that more or less cemented Jacob's decent into insanity and super-villainy! Bye!_


	4. No - More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Different is different..._

She can hear Joseph weeping again, his low sobs echoing through the bunker.

She doesn’t even feel it anymore, not beyond a faint pressure thrumming against her skin, distant shadows of loss and agony that can’t touch her.

Robin doesn’t feel _anything_ anymore.

She doesn’t feel the cutting and the cold from the handcuffs that – more often than not – keep her hobbled to the bedframe, bare and kneeling on the concrete in a stolen surrender. She doesn’t feel the stabs from her empty stomach or the cracking of her dry mouth and throat, deprivation to encourage compliance and humility. She doesn’t feel the wet, searing heat that touches every part of her body, most of all across her back – long curling lashes over and around the whispers of _Pride Pride Pride PridePridePridePridePridePridePride_ that mark her with the kiss of Atonement.

She doesn’t feel it when Joseph comes to her. Not when he comes in _Wrath_ , screaming and ranting and _hating_ , vicious and cruel in his bereavement, savage fists and feet, hands like steel claws, the belt and the blade and the burn as he comes to punish, to _avenge_. Not when he comes in cold, solemn _purpose_ , sitting and speaking and forcing his gospel upon her, the constant flood of it filling the room like smoke, choking and suffocating, cruel fingers tearing her hair or pinching her skin or sinking deep into her wounds whenever she begins to fade, chasing away sleep or seizing back coherency, no running or respite when he preaches bugs under her skin or needles into her brain, salvation forced between her lips and down her throat and spilling its poison inside her. Not when he comes in tears, broken and hurting, soft hands and soft lips seeking to sooth pains she doesn’t feel, tender embraces and words whispered against her skin – assurances of forgiveness and understanding, promises of a future, declarations of _love_ – that in another time would have torn her to pieces.

She doesn’t feel it when he comes to her with comfort – tending the wounds he’s inflicted, washing the blood and sweat and filth from her skin. She doesn’t feel it when he comes to her with care – tipping cool water and rich broth into her mouth, easing and entreating and encouraging her to imbibe. She doesn’t feel it when he comes to her with pleasure – fingers whispering over her skin, lips mapping her body, eyes _reverent_ as he sinks into her.

She doesn’t feel it when those kindnesses inevitably turn to ash, turn cold and sharp before the Wrath and the _hate_ blaze back to life – when wounds are torn open anew or her head is grasped and _forced_ beneath cold water; when her lips are pried apart and her jaw is wrenched open, sustenance forced down her throat with vicious hands and snarls and eyes; when he comes to take and claim and _own_ , grasping and clawing and biting and tearing, _forcing_ , hands wrapped tight around her wrists her hips her _throat_ as he uses her, again and again and again and again andagainagai _nagainagainagainagainagainagain **again**_ , hatred and cruelty and _blame_ spilling from his lips as he spills himself inside her.

She doesn’t feel it when he inevitably collapses – _beside her on her **in** her_ – afterwards. When his arms pull her close, when his tears fall on her hair and skin, when his hands run over her body – feather-light on her face, soothing up and down her sides, satisfied between her legs and possessive over her stomach – like silk, when he presses his lips to her skin and breathes, whispers his forgiveness and his love and his devotion. When he takes her limp hand in his and presses two kisses – like a brand – against the liquid black – once against the back of her hand, once against her wrist – and _begs_.

Robin doesn’t feel it. She doesn’t feel anything. Just an all-consuming emptiness and the distant cold that comes from the faded purple under her left collarbone (over the heart she doesn’t have anymore) and across the back of her neck.

She does _remember_.

She remembers how John had looked at her with so much _confusion_.

She remembers how Jacob had looked at her with such _understanding_.

Robin’s still not sure which had been worse.

_“If you have to,”_ she remembers how Dutch had told her, once-upon-a-time ago, just out the door and down the hall from her cell in this very bunker, _“you can live with it.”_

He’d been right.

He’d just neglected to mention that you’d spend the rest of your life wishing you weren’t.

Maybe it hadn’t been that way for him. Maybe Dutch hadn’t known. Hell, maybe it wouldn’t be that way for _her_ if the bombs hadn’t fallen.

If it wasn’t just her and Joseph, alone together after the end of the world.

Joseph reminds her of that fate, every day when he comes to her – in rage or sorrow or compassion – hunting for the last piece of _her_.

“We’re all each other have now,” he speaks cries screams begs, hands soft and sweet and cruel and clawing, agony and desperation and hate and longing bleeding from his lips and cutting into her skin.

She doesn’t feel it.

And she doesn’t speak.

And when her silence tears him apart, burns the world all over again, when he turns on her once more – violence and vengeance and vindicated Wrath, forcing _Atonement_ upon her again and again and again…

She doesn’t feel that either.

Robin doesn’t feel _anything_.

Not anymore.

She can hear Joseph weeping again and she doesn’t feel anything.

But that doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that, this time, when he’d left her… Joseph forgot to put the handcuffs back on.

She gets up, gets her shaking feet under her and limps out of the room and into the bunker, silent but for the steady -drop drop drop- of blood falling to the floor.

She’s tired, worn, empty and weak, each step taking more than – by any right – she should have to give.

She walks anyway – overwhelming need providing the strength as she makes her unfaltering way through the bunker.

Robin knows _exactly_ where she needs to go.

By the time she reaches her destination she can barely stand, the world gone fuzzy past the edges until there’s only a little window of clarity, tilting wildly around her, trying to trip up her unsteady feet. The entire span of her back is hot and slick and wet, there’s a cold fire burning through her limbs, and her mouth tastes like ashes and old pennies. She can barely breathe.

She doesn’t feel any of that.

And none of it matters.

Robin knows Dutch’s bunker. She knows where she is. And she knows what’s waiting for her.

And so she reaches out, pushes the books and boxes aside, and she takes it.

She can hear Joseph again, his voice echoing through the bunker.

He’s not weeping now.

She can hear the choked off gasp of shock and confusion, followed by the low and desperate cry, the question that turns to horror, the horror that turns to anger as he calls for her again and again and again, the sounds of his feet and his voice and his _Wrath_ echoing through the bunker, growing louder and louder as he comes closer and closer, until he’s entering the room – a storm of righteous fury and betrayal and malice, the promise of _Atonement_ and _Repentance_ , the injury of a martyr and the void where the patience and mercy of The Father has been _spent_ , and it all washes over her like baptismal waters.

Robin doesn’t feel any of it.

She turns, and she meets Joseph’s eyes, and she sees him _freeze_.

Robin watches as Joseph’s Wrath turns to cold ash, crumbling and blowing away, leaving him hollow and empty and _terrified_.

For the first time since the world died… Robin almost _feels_ something.

She watches the horror and terror wash over him, watches his eyes go wide and his skin go pale, desperate hands rising slowly – shaking – into the air.

“ _Robin…_ ”

Distantly, she realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever called her by _her **name**_ , rather than by some title that _he’s_ put on her, and for a second time she nearly feels something.

“Robin,” he breathes her name again, like a prayer, and takes a single step towards her. “ _Please_ , give m-”

Robin stares into Joseph’s eyes and _speaks_.

_**“You deserve this.”** _

She sees him _jolt_ to a halt, sees the tears flood into his eyes, hears him _gasp_ as her _**Words**_ hit him.

And then she raises her arm.

She sees the all-consuming _horror_ flood into Joseph’s tear-filled eyes, hears him start to _scream_ , sees him start to _run_ towards her, and _**feels**_ the touch of cold metal under her finger and against her temple, and then –

There’s a flash of _**peace**_.

And Robin doesn’t feel anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Torture, Psychological Torture, Abuse (Physical, Mental, and Emotional), Brainwashing, Imprisonment, Rape, PTSD, Disassociation, Character Death, and Suicide. 
> 
> _In which different isn’t always better, and sometimes there's only one way to Resist._
> 
> _See you next week._


	5. Miss - Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Baptist, take three._

The world’s roaring in her ears like she’s back underwater, tilting beyond the gouts of smoke as she pulls herself from the wreckage.

Robin stumbles, staggers, stomach heaving wildly as she tries to blink the blood from her eyes. Behind her she can feel the heat from the flames and she lurches forward, the distant thunder of gunfire clashing alongside the poundpoundpound of her own heartbeat, the ground – uneven and furrowed and littered with debris and a hindrance enough as it is – rocking and swimming under her unsteady feet thanks to her rattling brain.

She moves forward as fast as she can, choking on the smoke and the haze of fuel and mouthfuls of blood, moving and moving and just barely stumbling away and down on the other side of a ditch before her stolen plane explodes – shattering noise and crushing force and white hot heat rushing out and ratcheting up the hellscape of a battlefield she’s landed in.

_Get in the plane, they said._ Robin gasps for breath, coughs and chokes on the blood in her mouth, doubles over as she tries to empty her mouth and clear her airways. _Go dogfight John “Has-an-Actual-Pilot’s-License” Seed, they said._ She spits a mouthful of blood out onto the dirt, then another, one shaking arm braced against the ground as she gasps. _You can liberate all of Holland Valley and it’ll be **great** , ignore your well established history of being a shit driver and your pathological fear of heights, they said._ Another mouthful of red-tinted spit hits the ground.

“Ugh…” Eyes squeezed shut, Robin lets her head fall down, pressing against the dirt as she shakes and gasps for breath. “This can’t be a good sign.” She coughs again, wincing as another flood of wet warmth – not all of which can be blamed on all the oral cuts or the split roof of her mouth – washes over her tongue. “Stop it blood,” the hand _not_ holding her somewhat off the ground clutches – a little compulsively – at her chest, fingers digging into the worn fabric of her shirt’s neckline, over the worst stab of pain coming from inside her torso, “we don’t have time to argue. Just…” she winces through a flare of wet, hot pain, “just stay inside me where you belong and I promise I’ll take you to visit Doc Lindsey ASAP.”

The thunder’s getting closer, gunfire and explosions and the scream of battle cutting through the fog around her mind and drowning out her pain-fueled and rattled-skull babbling.

“Right…” Gritting her teeth, Robin shoves herself upwards, staggering a little on unsteady feet, fingers falling down and clumsily fumbling to draw her 1911 ( _RIP favorite bow. You were amazing and saved my life a lot and totally crushed that ambush-y Peggy’s skull, and for that I will morn your loss for longer than is healthy or socially acceptable._ ) as she turns towards the sound of rapidly approaching wheels. “C’mon blood… let’s go kill the bad cult people before they kill us.”

And then there’s no time for crazed babbling.

Before long she’s fallen back into step, helped along her way by the obligingly murderous Peggies – all rolling up in a storm of dust and bullets and demands for her to render up her heathen life on the sacrificial alter of The Father’s will.

She is, it could probably go unspoken, not particularly amenable to the idea.

So she kills them.

The air’s thick with smoke and dust, the sounds of screams and explosions and gunfire still echoing through the distance, and the taste of blood and ash and gunpowder heavy in the air when the last Peggy in the vicinity falls, bringing an abrupt halt to her latest turn on the killing floor.

She staggers to a stop, pulse thundering inside her ears as she gags on the mix of blood and dust coating her tongue, struggling to stay upright and fighting to breathe. 

Everything _hurts_ – a slow burn that throbs through her whole body, turning more and more icy sharp around its edges – and the only thing keeping her upright and opened eyed is the mix of adrenaline and bloody minded stubbornness.

She kind of really just wants to find a nice, quiet little spot – somewhere out of the way, where no one’s trying to murder her – and pass out a little.

Just for a bit.

But the war’s still raging in the distance and the – somehow still intact and functional – radio on her hip’s just buzzed to life – Pastor Jerome’s voice belting out intel and directives and encouragement like a particularly baritone cavalry bugle, stoking the flames and urging everyone who hears it onward and upward, once more into the breach and fuck the Peggies’ shit up once and for all and _take back our home_ and –

And Robin’s got a job to do.

So she scans the area – double-checking that none of the apparent corpses are going to suddenly scream _‘Psych!’_ and jump up to murder her – and slides a new magazine into her 1911, takes as deep a breath as she can, and turns to head into the fray and –

One more gunshot rings out.

And something cold _-taps-_ against her stomach.

Slowly, startled and confused, Robin finds her eyes falling downward, fingers running tentatively over the worn-out and used-up vest she’s wearing, finally coming to a stop over a new little hole in it.

She pulls her hand back and her fingers away wet and red.

The cold starts spreading through her whole body.

“Oh…” Robin hears her own voice, a distant whisper, soft and shaky and strangely toneless, hollow and detached as she watches more red bloom up from out of the little hole, from under the bottom of the vest, seeping out faster and faster as she stares. “That’s not… good…”

Something twitches in the back of her mind and her head lifts, eyes following it and staring down the road ahead.

Her gaze follows the road all the way down to where John Seed is standing – battered and tattered and glaring at her in cold hate from behind the smoking muzzle of a rifle.

Robin stares down the road at her soulmate – feeling cold and confused and blurry at the edges, her insides going emptier and emptier as she feels the red drain away and sees his hateful stare – and when she goes to take a step towards him her feet give out and she falls.

She catches herself for a moment, one bloodstained hand hitting the ground before the rest of her can, holding her up on her knees while her other hand instinctively flies up to try and hold the red inside her stomach.

She’s only there for a second when something surges up inside her, accompanied by the dull realization that she can’t breathe, and suddenly she’s coughing – weak and wet – and there’s more red flooding up into her mouth and out onto the ground, so much more than there’d be before and showing no sign of stopping this time.

Seconds later her arm gives out, and Robin finds herself shivering weakly in the dirt, cheek pressed against the ground as she coughs up mouthful after mouthful of blood.

A shadow falls over her – almost as cold as she already feels – and she can’t find it in her to turn and look.

Not that it matters.

A second after the shadow falls there’s a weight on her shoulder, barely noticeable beyond the distant pressure before it pulls, turns her over onto her back with a faint attempt at a cry and another wet cough, and –

And suddenly she’s staring up into John Seed’s face.

His face is cold, expression thunderous, his blue eyes gone hard and sharp as ice as he stares down at her. She stares back up, drowning in his eyes and in the red that’s flooding her lungs, choking and gagging as fluid gets caught in her throat and she can’t get it out. 

And John sees that, his eyebrows pulling together sharply as she chokes wetly in the dirt, expression going tense and unhappy and suddenly he’s kneeling beside her, roughly pulling her upwards – enough so that she can cough the red out, a sneer pulling at his lips when it splashes out and against him.

A sharp hand probes at the hole and she gasps, fuzzy vision going perfectly white for a moment. When the brightness fades, she the world starts to creep slowly back into focus, all she can see is John’s face. He looks… angry. Upset. All the muscles pulled tense, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark and furious as he stares down at her, frustration and anger and the faintest hints of distant _fear_ swelling up behind those eyes.

She can hear his voice – soft waves of pain that spark over her cold skin – as he snarls, accusations falling from his lips that she can’t quite make sense of because –

Because…

He shakes her suddenly, roughly, hisses sharply down at her and pulls her from the cold fog that’s welling up all around. He keeps speaking, a rain of ice and lightning and metal shards striking her from a distance, and she can’t make sense of it because… because all she can fathom is his eyes.

Robin stares up into her soulmate’s eyes, big and beautiful and perfectly _blue_ and… and suddenly it’s really hard to think of anything else.

It’s hard to _worry_ about anything else.

It’s hard to –

Someone shakes her, a voice curling over and under and inside her skin, and it sort of hurts but… but that’s alright? Isn’t it? Because the voice _belongs_ there so… so it must…

She blinks, stares up into the perfect blue above her and –

And…

And her soulmate looks back down at her.

And suddenly there’s tears in her eyes and they feel so _good_ , all the happiness spilling up and out of her because… 

Because he’s _there_.

Her soulmate’s there, _with her_ and –

And…

One of her hands lifts, rises up in the air and brushes against his cheek – his beautifully painful voice going silent and his expression going confused and his eyes –

His eyes…

His…

A little breath – almost a laugh – escapes her, lilting out from behind her smile as she presses her hand to his face and –

_**“You have… such…”**_ Something catches in her throat, a sharp stab that turns into a shaky cough, blood flooding up and spilling out past her smile, her eyes flickering as she stares into her soulmate’s – _**“beautiful eyes.”**_

Robin stares up into those beautiful blue eyes, smiling through the blood and the tears, and –

She sees John’s eyes ( _Beautiful, so beautiful_ ) grow wide as the Words fall from her lips, sees him jolt to perfect stillness, sees his mouth part in a silent gasp and _feels_ as a current runs through his skin and –

“No…”

And then she sees him _break_.

Tears flood into his eyes, breath coming faster and faster in little gasps after the broken whisper, all color drained from his skin as the light of realization catches and _burns_ in his beautiful blue eyes.

“No, no no nononono _no_ –” the tears fall faster, streaming down his face as a quaking hand presses sharply against her stomach, heavy pressure that draws a rough gasp from her and an echoing cry from him. “No, please no…” He _sobs_ , the flood of words coming faster and faster, drops of ice falling and freezing and cutting into her numb skin as he pulls her close, presses his hand harder against the flow of red. “No, I didn’t –” rain falls against her hair, across her face, “Please –” the world tilts and shivers as he moves, struggles for something even as he tries to hold back the red and hold her close, “Hold on… hold on, I –”

Her eyes flutter, trying to clear some of the mist and water away as she drifts along, her soulmate’s voice echoing – formless and tumultuous as thunder – across the water as –

“ _No!_ ” The raw terror and agony in her soulmate’s voice cuts through her, her eyes flying back open and locking with his, John’s beautiful blue eyes gone heartbreaking and heartbroken, tears streaming down his wracked face that she wants to brush away, her fingers twitching in the dirt and against the sticky wet fabric of her shirt as she tries to lift a hand and try and make it better.

She tries but…

She just… can’t…

Another sob wracks her soulmate, his tremors rocking her as he gasps and cries. “Stay with me, _please_!” His hand presses down more (it doesn’t hurt so much this time) and there’s a sort of clattering as he drops something. None of that matters though, because suddenly his hand is taking hers, lifting it from the dirt as his arm curls around her, pulling and cradling her close as his head falls to press against hers. “Please, I’m sorry – I didn’t know –” his hand squeezes, arms pulling her closer and closer, hot warmth falling against her as he shakes and sobs. “Please, please, I’m sorry… I’m sorry, please don’t leave me, please –”

_Something’s hurting him…_

Robin shivers, brow furrowing a little as the though hits her, the ever growing waves of painhurtsorrorregret _shame_ agonyagony _ **agony**_ flooding over her as her soulmate sobs and _begs_ – “Please, please I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry” – over and over and over.

Something’s hurting her soulmate, and she needs to… needs… she… fix it. She needs to… fix it. Make it better, make him… help him. She needs to help him, _save_ him, stop whatever’s hurting him and make it all better. She just…

She’s staring into his eyes, falling deeper and deeper into the beautiful blue ( _beautiful, so beautiful, you’re so beautiful John_ ) and –

Her free hand lifts into the air – airy and untethered and heavy as stone all at once – and her fingers brush over his skin, sweeping and smearing at the tears there and cutting through his sobs.

Robin smiles.

She can do this.

She can help him.

She can _save_ him.

She just… needs to… to rest first.

Just… for a…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Cannon Typical Violence, Injury, and Character Death.
> 
> _In which Wrath is brought to peace, some actions cannot be undone, and Gates are shut._
> 
> _Again, see you next Friday._


	6. Near - Miss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Buckle in, y’all, it’s time for the long one._
> 
> _*Ahem* And now for something entirely different…_

Robin Baird was never one of those kids that didn’t know what they wanted to be when they grew up. Hell, she wasn’t even one of those kids people _asked_ ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’ because it was so damn obvious. Robin was always going to be an officer of The Law – a deputy and then almost certainly sheriff in Somewhere-or-Other, Montana. The latest link in a chain of dedicated and ambiguously stable servants of Law and Order stretching all the way back to well before their boat docked in “The Colonies” all the way back in the day. A proper Clancy, in spirit and function if not in surname. It’s something that’s always been as certain and will always be as _right_ as the sun rising in the East.

Some days, though…

“Mr. Bosman,” she jumps in at the first breath (nearly _two damn minutes_ of uninterrupted rambling, she’s almost impressed), cutting through the tirade and pushing forward before the tirader can retake the field. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention,” _you miserable, creepy-ass little busybody,_ “I can assure you, the Hope County Sheriff’s department will investigate this with all the diligence it deserves,” _absolutely fucking **none**_. “However,” she continues, cutting over a too-pleased sound on the other end of the phone, “for our records I _do_ need to ask… how, _precisely_ , did you come by this information?”

There’s a long, _long_ stretch of silence.

Then the high-tirade comes in again.

Robin closers her eyes against the flood of defensive ranting, fighting the ever growing urge to pound her head repeatedly against her desk as shrieks of “I’m a respectable citizen,” and “You have a _duty_ ,” and “moral _bankruptcy_ of the young” ring tinily through the receiver.

_If you **try** playing the ‘I pay your salary’ card, you dumb redneck sonovabitch, I fucking **swear** I –_

The tirade peaks suddenly, hitting a pitch not usually found without cats and rocking chairs present. _“A **crime** has been committed,”_ the shrilling words, packed full of self-righteous indignation, drill their way into her entirely undeserving ears, _“and I **expect** you to –”_

_**Nope.** _

“ _Sir._ ” Robin let’s just a _touch_ of what she’s feeling color the word, the single syllable consequentially carrying the weight of the world, the clear threat of immanent violence, and the by no means uncertain message that while ‘sir’ is what she’s _saying_ it is _absolutely_ not what she’s _calling_ him.

Not surprisingly, Bosman goes _dead_ silent.

A sharp little smile dawns on Robin’s face, and when she continues speaking her voice’s gone back to being honey-sweet and unimpeachably professional and respectful. “Mr. Bosman, while it _is_ true that it is illegal for men and women to engage in sexual intercourse in positions other than ‘missionary’ in the State of Montana,” _**apparently** , what the literal and figurative **fuck** State of Montana,_ “it is my duty to inform you that unlawful surveillance is significantly _more_ illegal.” She lets that hang in the air for a second, drawing strength from the tensely awkward silence. “So _again_ , for the record, I have to ask you – _how_ do you know what sexual positions Mr. and Mrs. Haverford have been employing?”

There’s another, significantly _longer_ silence.

Followed by a sharp little -click- as the line goes dead.

Slowly, Robin pulls the old office phone back, its cord swaying back and forth as she stares flatly at it for a few painful moments. Then, taking a _deep_ breath, she sets it back down in its cradle and starts rifling through one of her desk drawers.

“Lose something, dear?”

Robin’s eyes lift for a moment, pulling away from the hodgepodge of files and five-pound bag of Smarties (well, three-and-a-little by this point) to connect with the newly returned dispatcher, a wry and weary smirk twitching over her face. “My faith in humanity?” A faint little huff of laughter escapes her at the expression that draws, a touch of done-with-this-all lifting from her shoulders. “Also,” Robin shuts the drawer, opening its neighbor and shuffling through the new assortment of files and loose Milky Ways, keeping half an eye on her coworker as she hunts, “Boss’ list of ‘People We Leave to be Handled by Their Own Victims.’”

There’s a slow blink from behind the thickly horn-rimmed glasses. Then Nancy just _sighs_ , setting her cup down and settling herself into her chair with an overwhelming aura of disapproving weariness. “Lloyd Bosman?” At Robin’s sudden start and startled stare the dispatcher sighs again, her mouth twitching into something between bit-into-a-lemon and stepped-in-something’s-leavings. “He’s on it.”

“Huh.” Robin straightens herself up, closing the drawer – after snagging up a sneaky dark chocolate Reese’s, of course ( _My precious!)_ – and letting another little huff of incredulous laughter free. “Not the first time he’s called in about the Haverfords, then?” The Look on Nancy’s face answers that question well enough. _Unbe **live** able_. Her head starts shaking on its own accord, very probably as some kind of defense mechanism, and she starts busting into her candy for much the same reason. “Well that takes _one_ thing off my to-do list. Still,” Robin pauses, chocolaty peanut-buttery treat held about an inch from her mouth as the thought refuses to leave her, “I… kinda feel like I should call _them_ with a heads up that their neighbor’s spying on them.”

Nancy’s posture goes suddenly rigid, her Look ratcheting up to dead-moth-floating-in-my-cup, and she actually _sniffs_. “The Haverfords know.”

_Wait, seriously?_

Robin pauses again, dark chocolate and peanut butter melting in her mouth as she stares across the way. “Seriously?” A steely glare shoots out from above the horn-rims, and – fighting down a faint flush and the distant echoes of her own mother’s disapproval (“Robin Clancy, you are not a philistine, I raised you with _some_ manners”) – Robin obligingly swallows down her mouthful of candy, washing it down with a mouthful of ‘black-and-bitter-as-your-soul’ coffee ( _thanks Staci, you’re a fucking peach_ ) before she starts talking again. “Well damn.” _Sorry Mama._ “Whatever gets you off, I guess.” She freezes abruptly, mid shrug, as the thought hits her – bringing a devilish spark to her eyes and a lopsided grin to her face. “Literally,” she waggles her eyebrows a little, “in this case.” 

The utterly _scandalized_ Look she gets for that could be in an encyclopedia. _Attached_ to the definition of ‘scandalized.’ Obviously.

She can’t stop the burst of laughter that comes at that, then almost immediately swallows her tongue trying. 

Judging by the follow-up look, neither her laughter nor her pathetic attempt at not laughing are appreciated.

Not one to be daunted, Robin shoots her sunniest grin across the room. “Oh come on, Nance, that was at least a _little_ funny.” The prim, stuffy little ‘hmph’ she gets in response seems to indicate that – no indeed, the dispatcher does _not_ agree with that assessment. At all. Successfully managing to bite back a sigh, Robin gives in and nods a little in apology, filing the joke away to share with Staci later ( _ **he’ll** know it’s funny_). 

Nancy doesn’t look convinced, but she _does_ look a little mollified as she turns her attention to whatever paperwork she’s got going on, so Robin decides to call it a win.

Then _another_ thought hits her.

There’s a low, lengthy sigh from across the room as Robin bursts out laughing again. Unperturbed, Robin flashes another grin across the room. “Seriously though? I _wish_ I could’ve been there to see it the first time Bosman tried calling this in to the Sheriff.”

The constant -skritchskritch- of Nancy’s pen stills for a second, and Robin’s not _entirely_ sure but she _thinks_ the older woman’s lips actually twitch for a fraction of a second. “If I recall,” the pen starts moving again, any possible signs of amusement dying like a slutty cheerleader in a slasher flick, replaced by a vague sense of disapproval (and maybe just a _touch_ of embarrassed guilt), “the Sheriff told Mr. Bosman that – the issues with informational provenance aside – if he pursued the line of inquiry with the Haverfords he would run into severe issues with time, manpower, and prison space, as he would then be forced to arrest the majority of Hope County for regularly committing the same crime.”

_I love my Sheriff._

“That is hilarious and beautiful, and made even better because it’s so true.” Nancy sniffs a little, but Robin just grins all the brighter ( _You’re not fooling me, you professional naysayer. I **know** you got a kick out of that, no matter **how** much you want to pretend you didn’t_), shooting a knowing look at the older woman over her coffee cup. Then _**another**_ thought hits her, and Robin narrowly avoids snorting coffee out her nose. “Everywhere but up in Jonestown,” she sets her cup down hurriedly, chuckling a little and jerking her thumb in the general direction of the Compound of Doom, “of course. I’d lay money that those people have it somewhere in their culty manifesto that if you screw your spouse in any other position you’ll go straight on down to Special Hell – and even _then_ they’ve probably got to take twenty lashes in the village square afterwards, all while chanting their cult daddy’s name.” She picks her cup back up again, then pauses with it half way to her mouth, her head cocking to the side in consideration. “Which, honestly, probably just gets them all revved up again…”

There’s a sharp _-thudclack-_ across the room as Nancy’s hands slap down on her desk, the dispatcher’s face all flushed with moral outrage for a moment before – sniffing at Robin’s wide-eyed blink – settling back into its usual expression of stuffy disapproval. Nancy pulls herself up – prim enough to impress a Victorian governess ( _Come **on** , Nance, you’re barely into your **fifties**_ ) – and returns to the files in front of her, pausing _just_ long enough to shoot Robin a _Look_ that fully conveys all the ways that she is a disgrace and a reprobate and a highly inappropriate failure as a Lady. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to joke about such things.”

“So,” Robin, being _very_ used to that style of Look ( _Hell if I know **why** all small towns have Little Olde Ladies who inexplicably think they were born in the eighteen-hundreds, but Baker’s Ford had **plenty** of them and they were all a **damned** sight more intimidating that **you** , Miss Nancy Schmancy_) just cocks an eyebrow and lets her grin go even more lopsided. “I take it you _don’t_ want to hear my theories on likelihood that Eden’s Gate has _primae noctis_ as a foundational part of its charter and all the Seeds – sorry!” Her hands fly up, one held up and warding while the other grabs and starts waving a tissue through the air. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop, I’ll be good.” Robin ducks her head a little, batting her eyes up at the _blisteringly_ dour glare and lifting two fingers into the air, smiling winningly. “Scout’s honor?”

The dispatcher just _stares_ at her for a moment, pen clutched tight and eyes blazing like she’s really and truly thinking about marching across the room and marking Robin with a scarlet “A” or something equivalent.

Then, finally, Nancy just _sighs_ through her nose, one eye twitching as she goes – _very pointedly_ – back to her paperwork.

_Yikes._

Biting sharply into the inside of her cheek ( _Can’t smile anymore, Crazy Old Battleaxe will **kill** me_), Robin brings her cup all the way, letting the steam and scent of the coffee wash over her as she scans the table for something to do now that the festivities are dying down.

There’s nothing.

The intense amusement from the earlier silliness starts fading quickly, boredom and frustration easing into its place as she glares at the completely empty ‘To Do” tray on her desk. Her work’s done, _Staci’s_ work’s done, what little Joey had been willing to give her (“ _Some_ of us” said with an unimpressed look at an unashamed Pratt, “have to set a good example and actually do the most of our own jobs.”) is done, Whitehorse had just waved off her pleading-puppy eyes with a lopsided grin of his own, and even _Robin’s_ not brave or crazy enough to _dare_ go near Nancy’s stack of paperwork. Robin sips at her coffee, spinning her chair side to side a little as she thinks. Paperwork’s done and out. She’s already cleaned the bathrooms, the cells ( _twice_ ), and the entire kitchen. Kitchen’s stocked, coffee’s made, and the only car left is clean and fueled up. She could go do inventory and maintenance on their ordinance again… but going off Joey’s recent water-tower jokes Robin’s starting to think she may be perceived as being a little _too_ thorough when it comes to that particular chore. Which means that, until the Sheriff and Joey _and_ Staci get back from their respective calls, and unless somebody else calls in to the station…

_Mother Hubbard._ Robin bites back a sigh, letting her head loll back limply. _There is nothing and I am **bored**._ She squints up at the fluorescent lights, face scrunching up unhappily. _I’d **actually** take another call from Busybody Bosman right now._

The boredom isn’t in a hurry to get alleviated, it seems – and it apparently decides to drag time down to its level, minutes ticking by _painfully_ slow where jack-all happens.

Ultimately Robin’s on her fourth cup of coffee and glaring at a thrice alphabetized stack of files, her gaze slowly daring to shift over to the files sitting so temptingly in Joey’s “To Do” tray, when her phone buzzes abruptly – two burst of angry-bee humming accompanied by a little gray bubble on the screen.

Robin’s already got it in hand before the text alert finishes going off, pushing her glasses down from off her head as she tries to decipher the coded message – a little cartoon fox, followed by a zombie, a little yellow lady holding her arms in an “O” over her head, and then a little yellow guy shrugging and about a thousand question marks.

Robin can’t stop her head from shaking as she translates the string of emojis. Literally, she can’t, it’s a self-defense mechanism. Sadly, she also can’t keep herself from grinning as she texts back. _-I’m alive enough to arrest you for murdering the English language and hiding its body.-_

A little yellow dude holds his arms in an “X” over his torso at her, right next to a little yellow face winking and sticking its tongue out. Then, before she can respond, another flurry of texts follow; a little yellow face and hand, looking upwards in contemplation; a little yellow lady police officer, a little yellow guy in old timey prison stripes, and – for _some reason_ – an eggplant; a little yellow face with blushing cheeks; and, finally, a string of thumbs-ups, fireworks, and another tongue-out winking face.

Robin just rolls her eyes. _-You’re an idiot.-_

Tongue-out winking face.

And a little yellow middle finger.

And then a heart.

_Such. A **fucking. Dork.**_

Robin’s head is shaking again, hard enough that she can pretend to ignore the tears pricking up above her huge, scrunch-nosed grin. _-Please tell me this stupidity means you’re going to be back soon. I am dying over here.-_

A little yellow grandma pops up on her phone, surrounded by question marks.

The snort breaks out before she can stop it, her eyes flicking up to double-check that Nancy didn’t catch and get offended by it. _-Actually I was referring to the overwhelming boredom of having absolutely nothing to do.-_ The corner of her mouth twitches a little. _-But now that you mention it…-_

Two little yellow dudes appear – one wearing a tin-foil hat and the other in a straightjacket.

_-Laugh all you want, jackass.-_ She scoffs a little, risking another glance across the room. _-I SWEAR, Nancy is going to fucking murder me in my sleep one of these days.-_

The response comes instantly – a horrified little yellow-circle-face followed by a teacup, a skull, a tombstone, the Ugandan flag ( _no but really, **why**_ ) and then a long string of sobbing little yellow-circle faces. And then a little moving picture dealie of Batman giving a thumbs-up.

For the second time that afternoon Robin nearly snorts coffee out her nose, grinning and shaking her head as she taps out a response to _that_ ridiculousness (“ _You’re a fucking twelve year old girl, you dork._ ” Which is itself responded to with a disembodied unicorn head, a dancing yellow lady in a fancy red dress, and a sparkly tiara, all framed by two thumbs-ups).

Robin’s sides and cheeks hurt from holding back the laughter, and she’s already starting to insult her partner again when – out of nowhere – the main line starts ringing, pulling her and Nancy both to attention. 

The dispatcher’s already picking up the phone, her skin going pale and her lips disappearing into a line within seconds of answering, and Robin switches gears – firing off a quick _-Got to go, my actual job may be happening-_ text before finally settling her phone back down on her desk. 

The phone gets hung up before half a minute’s passed, nothing but a series of tense monosyllables giving any indication of what _exactly_ the call was about, but the nearly visible thundercloud hanging over Nancy’s head making it pretty damn clear that it’s nothing good. “What’s up?”

“Oh.” Nancy jumps, startled, eyes flashing sharply over to Robin like she’s only just remembering that she’s not alone. For a split second the older woman just stares at her, a flurry of… something going on behind her eyes. Then, just as quickly as it happened, it all shuts back down. “There’s some… trouble in the Whitetail Mountains. Hurk Drubman Senior,” the dispatcher’s mouth twists back up like she’s bitten into something sour, “and some members of Eden’s Gate are having an altercation of some kind around the southern part of Wishbone Lake.”

A shudder runs down Robin’s spine like an ice cube.

_Oh. Oh **that** can’t be good…_

“Who’s closest?”

Nancy’s face smoothes out a little, composure reasserting itself as she starts wheels herself down a little to the radio. “Nobody.” Thin lips purse a little as the dispatcher starts getting her headset on. “The sheriff is down in southernmost part of Henbane, Josephine’s working on something out at the Rye’s place, and Deputy Pratt is taking _another_ call from –” a sniff pulls involuntarily at her face “– Larry Parker.”

_**Definitely** not good._

If the situation had been planned out it couldn’t have been worse – everybody’s about as far out from the problem as they can _be_ while still being in Hope County, and with the people involved there’s no way in _hell_ that any of the senior staff will arrive in time to prevent bloodshed.

Which means…

“Right.” Robin swallows down against the sour tang in her mouth, her face scrunching up and her stomach roiling a little as she finishes turning the information over in her head. Her eyes flick, instinctively, across the room – flitting over Staci and Joey’s empty desks quickly before resting a breath longer on the Sheriff’s. Then, sighing and shaking (just a little), she sets her glasses down and pushes herself up and away from her desk – double-checking that all’s as it should be with her 1911 as she makes her way over to the jeep keys.

There’s a sharp clatter across the room – a headset clattering down and knocking something over – and she can see Nancy’s startled posture and confused expression from the corner of her eye. “What are you –?”

Robin’s already got the keys, nerves making her jingle them a little in one hand as the other fiddles a little with her holster. “Might have to throw on the sirens a bit if I run into traffic or anything, but,” she makes herself stop jingling the keys, breathing a little through her nose to try and settle the nerves, and dips a little nod towards the still stunned dispatcher, “I _should_ make it before anyone gets murdered or anything.”

The dispatcher’s eyes are damn massive behind her thick glasses, all the usual disapproval that the older woman usually bleeds into the air just _gone_ as she stares, mouth working a little in silence as the gears and cogs visibly grind inside her head. “I…” For once there’s no hostility – not even the _hints_ of it – coming in Robin’s direction; instead there’s a low current of something like _concern_ as her eyes flick between the gearing up deputy, the door, and the sheriff’s desk. “I really don’t think…”

_Of all the times for you to **not** hate my guts…_ A rough, incredulous and nervous little laugh gets caught in her chest. _You choosing now is admittedly appreciated, if very ill-timed._

Trying to ignore the steady pulse of dread that doing its damnedest to take over, inconvenient and uninvited as it goes scratching underneath her skin and running along her veins, Robin grabs the hysterical seeds of laughter with both metaphorical hands and forces it to come out of her mouth as a heaved sigh. “Not you too.” She latches on to that – the old, deep kernel of frustration and resentment that got planted weeks ago and has only grown with every day she’s been sheltered and coddled by the rest of her precinct – funnels all her attention through that lens and shoves everything else behind her and into the dark depths of a mental closet, slamming the door on everything that’s trying to get between her and her job.

It is – perhaps unsurprisingly – quite and quickly effective.

Three cheers for compartmentalization.

Robin pulls up a little, some of the nervous tension fading as she makes eye contact and sighs again. “Look, Nancy, I… I get it, alright?” A little breath huffs out of her, not quite a sigh but not quite a laugh, the left corner of her mouth pulling up in a tight smile. “Cults are bad news and no one wants the _rookie_ getting involved with _this_ one and –” Robin catches herself, cuts herself off before her voice can peak, breaks away from Nancy’s gaze – startled wide and carefully guarded – and takes a second to just _breathe_ as she wrestles her temper back under control.

_Damn you temper. Damn you unresolved and unspoken of issues. Damn you well-meaning but utterly **infuriating** co-workers with your unasked for mollycoddling. And damn **you** stupid, vile, why the fuck do you exist motherfucking **cult** most of all._

“I can handle myself.” Her voice – quiet and firm from weary resignation – is as steady as a river’s course. “I can handle it –” she looks back up, gaze just as firm and steady, cotton (she can’t quite manage silk) over steel as she locks eyes with Nancy, “without anyone holding my hand or bundling me safely away – on _one_ call with these yahoos.”

Robin pauses, takes another deep breath, lets her words hang in the air and holds Nancy’s closely guarded gaze through the flickers of unnamed emotion. Then she sighs. Huffs a little laugh. Smiles a little. “And the Sheriff can bitch me out and thrown down whatever punishment he sees fit once this’s done – I’ll take it.” She huffs another breath, eyes falling briefly as her head dips and shakes itself, and when she looks up again – smile pulling a little small, a wry twist softened somehow by determination and resigned certainty – she can’t help but notice the little flinch Nancy can’t quite stop. “But I am not going to just sit here when there’s a chance people are getting hurt.”

Silence drops around them like a stone into deep waters – sinking and settling down in a gently suffocating rush.

Then, abruptly, Robin shakes herself a little – a bark of laughter bursting through her lips and the silence. “That said,” her lips quirk upwards, smile going back to loose and lopsided as she pushes past the brief surge of honesty and melodrama, “if you don’t hear from me in… I don’t know, an _hour_ or so, assume that I’ve been got by the cult or whatever. And in that case _please_ ,” rocking back a little on her heels, Robin flashes a brighter, wryer grin towards the stunned dispatcher, her voice returning to its baseline irreverent drawl, “send someone to come and save me before I get murdered or impregnated or something.”

She punctuates that last, charming idea with a little nod before – trying and kind of failing at not feeling like a death row inmate – turning and making her way for the door.

“Deputy Baird –”

She freezes at the door, the… weirdness of the tone pulling her up short.

Nancy’s in a half-rise, one hand planted – grounding – on her desk and the other hovering kind of awkwardly in the air – like she can’t decide between clutching at her chest or holding a hand out to Robin. Her expression’s weird too – drawn and sort of conflicted and concerned and… she’s –

Hell.

Nancy’s looking at Robin and for _once_ there isn’t even a _glimmer_ of disapproval on the older woman’s face.

It’s fucking _weird_.

And, if Robin’s going to be honest, kind of terrifying.

And maybe some of that (the medley of confusion, disorientation, surprise and fear) shows on her face. Because whatever’s making Nancy all weird, whatever thoughts or feelings or conflict’s churning through her brain, making her mouth work silently and her eyes go tight and quivery behind her glasses… all that gets shut away, pushed down below the surface when Nancy closes her eyes and ducks her head, sighing just the once.

When she looks back up a second later she’s mostly composed herself, a sense of deep weariness the only thing that betrays her earlier surge of emotion. Silence holds for a beat longer before, finally, Nancy sort of forces a little smile.

“Be careful, dear.”

It’s…

Robin’s staring, probably looking like a slack jawed idiot, but she can’t really help it because –

_She’s... being nice to me?_

And… yeah. Nancy sounds _genuine_ in her concern – even the usage of ‘dear’ actually sounding like she means it, an actual expression of affection (no matter how slight) rather than the pointedly disparaging insult (‘you _should_ be like this, not like the absolute disgraceful _heathen_ you are’) it typically conveys.

It’s… it’s _weird_.

And scary.

But… also…

Robin feels her lips curl upwards slowly, little knots of tension easing away all over her body as a little gust of fuzzy warmth sweeps through her.

It’s kind of nice.

She thinks about letting Nancy know that, too; about thanking the older woman for her concern, for the highly unexpected but _very_ welcome display of implicit support.

But…

Robin huffs a laugh, gives her head a carefree little toss, shoots off a wink from above a lopsided grin as she drawls, “No promises.”

Then, flicking a jaunty salute towards the now sighing dispatcher, Robin turns on her heel and heads out of the precinct.

As she goes she only _just_ catches the last flicker of emotion that passes over Nancy’s face.

She tries not to think about how it looked weirdly like _guilt_.

########################

She makes the drive from the station to Wishbone Lake in record time, and probably only breaks eighty percent of the traffic laws she’s sworn to uphold. The trip still doesn’t go fast enough that she can avoid thinking about how thoroughly she’s potentially fucked herself.

For one thing, she really isn’t supposed to be taking actual calls on her own. Aside from her only having a few months on-the-job experience total she’s only been in Hope County itself for a few weeks, and to date the only times she’s been allowed out without Whitehorse, Staci, or Joey with her has been when she’s getting food or coffee for everyone. On top of that there’s the issue that – as an all-but-official policy – _no one_ takes Eden’s Gate calls solo. _Ever_. So yeah – between the whole ‘rookie flying solo’ thing and the ‘taking on the cult alone’ thing and the ‘her, specifically, getting behind the wheel of a squad car’ _and_ the ‘rookie who’s not supposed to go anywhere near Eden’s Gate even _with_ backup going straight at Eden’s Gate all alone and un-backed-up’ thing… her Sheriff’s going to be _pissed_.

And that’s not even getting into her own, _very personal_ , reasons for not going places without a partner to do the preliminary talking for her…

So yeah. It’s looking like Robin’s well and truly done goofed.

Not that she’s going to let that stop her from doing her job.

Granted, when she finally pulls up on site and gets a look at what she’s been called out to deal with… the option of backing the jeep up, turning around, and bailing right the hell back to the station _does_ seem _incredibly_ appealing all of a sudden.

_What… the **actual** …_

The road’s been _barricaded_. Really, genuinely, _properly_ barricaded. And not just some little plastic pylons or cheap-ass fencing either. No, instead of that there’s a fucking _wall_ of wood and metal and concrete getting erected across the damn road; barrels and crates and furniture, barbed wire and sandbags and a couple old clunkers parked here and there in an obstruction so intense Robin half expects to see a bunch of French co-eds come popping up with a full orchestra behind them.

Sweet Freddy Mercury, there’s fucking _pikes_ stuck out of it.

And there, crowded around the barricade and looking ready to commit wholesale murder, are the Peggies.

There’s a crowd of them standing in the middle of the road, near on to a dozen people rocking cult-chic apparel (lots of ugly-ass oatmeal sweaters and a couple weirdoes in camo printed long jackets and enough facial hair to hold a ZZTop lookalike convention), about half a dozen trucks – all emblazoned with the Eden Cross for maximum creep factor – parked carelessly on and just off the road, and –

_Is that… does that freak have a fucking **wolf**?!_

– and one of them (some big guy standing all the way down the road) has a _fucking wolf_ on a leash, because _apparently_ all the guns and heavy duty bows getting Second Amendmented all along the road are for _pussies_ and _real_ cultists use _fucking **wolves**_.

Who knew?

The whole scenario is damn _terrifying_ , like all the fears of Hope County have finally come to life, like the cult’s finally bringing all their crazy right on out into the open – all the pretense done away with as they finally come right on out and –

And…

And that’s when it hits her.

The cultists are on the _wrong side_ of the barricade.

And suddenly the whole situation takes a hard left out of pants-fillingly scary and into the fucking _surreal_.

Slowly – resisting the urge to check that she’s not suddenly rocking a midriff-bearing uniform or a goatee – Robin eases out of the jeep, the… whatever the _hell’s_ going on so investing that no one seems to have noticed her arrival.

She hasn’t even gotten a foot on the ground when the _screaming_ hits her – a borderline unhinged stream of ranting that sounds kind of like Drubman Sr.

In fact… it sounds a _lot_ like Drubman Sr.

In fa-

“-ddamn cult shitstains think you can trample on the right of real, honest Americans with your deviant Canadian –”

_Oh fuck a corkscrewed duck._

Robin’s eyes fall closed, entirely of their own accord and probably as a self-defense measure – the urge to turn tail and run for the safety of the precinct returning with a _vengeance_ as Hurk Drubman Sr. continues to scream abuse, profanity, and baseless and contradictory nonsense at the _heavily armed cultists_ from behind his _barricade._

_How and more importantly **why** is this happening right now?_

There’s a slow swell of angry voices, muttering and snarls that occasionally peak up into shouts, all of it starting to rise up and trying to drown out Drubman Sr.’s inanities. Robin forces her eyes back open (no matter how much she _really_ doesn’t want to), scanning the madness before her as she starts to move back into the jeep’s cab, fingers brushing against the car radio (because _screw it_ , she’s got _no_ idea what to do with _this_ ) as Drubman Sr. screams his head off at the increasingly angry cultists, a handful of other locals (none of whom _look_ like they’re militia folk, thank _God_ for small mercies) sort of back him up with varying degrees of anger and nervousness, and some big guy (who she’s _pretty_ sure is Drubman _Jr._ ) at least seems to be _trying_ to calm the crazy old redneck down, providing the tiniest window of hope that maybe they won’t start killing each other until Robin can get on the radio and tell whoever’s her backup to hurry the fuck _up_ already so –

“– and tell that mentally defective lunatic _fuckwit_ you psychos call your daddy –”

_Oh **shit**._

A fucking _roar_ surges up from the Peggies, the insult to their beloved Father a metaphorical gallon of gasoline thrown on the smoldering trash fire, the lot of them moving towards the barricade as one, snarling and screaming like madmen ( _Not really helping your case there, to be honest_ ) as they advance. The people on Drubman’s side of the barricade (figuratively and literally) bow right back at the cultists, hands coming up full of hammers and baseball bats and rifles and in one case a damn _chair_ as they scream back. Drubman Sr.’s not helping either, not noticing or – probably more likely – not _caring_ that uber-violence is about to happen, still screaming and ranting and insulting the cult overlord right to the faces of his zealots. And set apart from all the madness, somehow _still_ unnoticed by all the idiots and lunatics, Junior Deputy Robin Baird just _stares_ in frozen shock and horror.

She can see it all play out in slow-motion – the build towards violence that’s actually happening, and the violence itself that she can foresee clear as day.

They’re going to _murder_ each other, right here, in broad daylight and the wide open in the middle of the street – cultists and rednecks spilling each other’s blood like something out of a bad movie or something, and for the life of her Robin can’t think of a damn thing to do and –

And that’s when the freak with the wolf (gone uncannily, _deathly_ still the second that Drubman Sr. started insulting Joseph Seed) moves; takes two slow, deliberate steps towards the rabble-rouser, and even from all the distance away Robin can see him start to let go of the leash, the wolf coiling up and snarling as the line starts to go slack and –

The sheer, unbridled, downright infuriating _absurdity_ of it all goes -snap- inside Robin’s mind.

_**“Sir!”**_ A voice, steady and even and downright commanding, _soars_ out over the din and pandemonium. _**“Put away your wolf and step back from the barricade.”**_

The whole area goes abruptly, absolutely still and _silent_ , time hanging frozen in awkward bewilderment before – _slowly_ – heads start to turn and –

And…

And…

_What… in the ever-loving **fuck** did I just say?_

That’s still rattling inside her head, alongside the still shocking realization that _she’d_ been the one that spoke, _and_ the belated realization that she’s moving forward – with, again, a calm and steadiness that she’s go _no idea_ the origin of – when the wolf-man slowly turns her way too and Robin finds herself staring down the road and dead into the eyes of –

Of…

_Oh… **shit.**_

It’s Jacob Seed.

Her mental landscape _erupts_ , klaxons and alarms and Red Alerts and damn well _everything_ going crazy because _this_?! Is _fucking **bad**_.

This is –

_This_ …

This.

_I am fucking **screwed**._

One of the first things Robin’d been told – once the issue had been forced and Whitehorse’d _had_ to tell her about Eden’s Gate – was that, under _no circumstances what-so-ever_ , _**no one**_ was to go near _any_ of the Seeds if there was literally _any_ alternative.

The Seeds were _Bad News_ , with a capital oh-fuck-me- _run_ , and they were not to be confronted or challenged or _especially_ mocked – they were _too dangerous_ and _**Jacob**_ –

_Fuck._

Jacob Seed.

She’s _heard_ about Jacob Seed. Heard about him through the kinds of horror stories you usually only get second-or-fifth-hand around a campfire – my cousin saw and my aunt’s neighbor barely and the cops never found the spleen. The kind of stories you don’t buy, don’t put stock in, don’t think about once you’ve sobered up. Except people don’t tell Jacob Seed stories around the campfire at night, gesturing big with their beers, voices pitched theatrically low and eyes sparkling with ghoulish glee. No. They tell them in the daylight, stood close to their friends and arms tucked in tight, knuckles white and hands shaking on their glasses, voices rough and pitched low out of the same raw, primal terror that shines through their too wide eyes.

And _that_ is the man that Robin’s just shouted at like he’s some drunken shlub she’s out to collar.

The man all of Hope County’s terrified of.

The man who was all set and primed for blood and violence before she butted in.

The man she probably just made ridiculous – however unintentionally – before his followers and enemies alike.

And _she’d_ –

She –

She’s screwed.

Robin Baird – already in _way_ over her head and flying blind – just walked up and kicked the Big Bad Wolf of Eden’s Gate in the dick.

She just challenged _Jacob Seed_ , in the most ridiculous way possible, before a whole crowd of his minions and his enemies and now all his attention is _riveted_ on _**her**_.

Forget screwed.

Robin is well and truly _fucked_.

He’s staring at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted in stunned disbelief – _Probably unable to wrap his mind around the **insanity** that’d just been shouted at him in front of God and everyone from the dumbass rookie flying solo down the road._

Her feet finally come to a stop about twenty feet from the barricade (less from the damn _cult overlord_ she’d just crazied at), heart pounding all the way up into her throat as she does, skin crawling from all the eyes on her, every last person on the road just _staring_ at her and –

Jacob Seed’s still staring at her.

She’s up close enough now to see him properly – to make out the clammy pallor of his skin, the faint tremor in his hands, the way his eyes ( _massively_ wide) are _fixed_ on her and –

And…

_Well, that’s done it._ There’s a strange sort of calm settling on her, a peace born from acceptance and resignation. _Whitehorse isn’t going to get the chance to kill me because ‘Herald Jacob’ here is going to **fucking murder** me first._

All around her people are starting to react, waking up as the shock fades. Chuckles are starting to rattle out from behind the barricade; most of them are holding an edge of awkward nervousness, but some are too loud and _much_ to genuine for the present circumstance, paired off with an increasing volume of nudges and burgeoning catcalls of “put your wolf away” that are both horribly ill-advised and _excessively_ misplaced ( _For the – that’s not ever even been a **euphemism** for anything, you stupid redneck bastards!_). The Peggies – already starting to look _pissed_ again – take all that self-preservation-less idiocy as proof positive that their beloved Herald is being _mocked_ by the heathen dog of law, and respond by bowing right the hell up – bristling and snarling like feral dogs themselves.

Whatever unintentional ceasefire Robin’s involuntary insanity had launched is breaking down _fast_ ; both groups filling up faster and faster with tension and energy and communal _pride_ , and in a second all that’s going to break free and rain blood and hellfire down on this miserable little stretch of road and –

And that’s when, over Jacob Seed’s ( _Still staring, still staring, fuck me running **why** is he still just **staring**?!_) painfully tense shoulder… Robin sees Hurk Drubman Sr. straighten up, _grin_ like the smuggest bitch in the kennel, and _open his mouth_.

_Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit oh **shit** –_

“Mr. Drubman,” somehow ( _The world may never know!_ ) _none_ of what she’s feeling comes through in her voice, each words drawling out as calm and easy as a stroll in the park. “You _know_ you and your friends are going to have to take all this down,” she flicks her hand airily, finger indicating the whole of the barricade. She locks eyes with the boss redneck, one eyebrow cocking up sharply, “Right?”

And for a _second_ time that minute, the needle of life goes scratching off the record.

The new wave of bewilderment only lasts for a split-second – just long enough that the immanent violence drains out of everyone like so much air out of so many murderous balloons.

And then Drubman Sr. – already transitioned from Smug Asshole to Deer in Headlights – sputters back to life, eyes going huge and skin going red and mouth gasping and gaping in one of the best slapped-fish-stranded-out-of-water-having-an-apoplexy impressions Robin’s ever seen, before the buildup of self-righteous indignation and moral outrage welling up inside bursts like a overfed tick, offended vitriol spewing everywhere as the redneck-in-chief starts shrieking at the top of his lungs.

Robin sighs through the first few seconds of the tirade – all “trampling our rights” this and “liberal agenda” that and “I’m acting out because my wife left me for a younger man who _isn’t_ a worthless piece of rabblerousing shit and I’ve got nothing to live for but making problems for other people and I’ve probably got a small penis” something something Leonard Bernstein. And then, the _second_ he’s forced to pause for breath (in the middle of some flood about “defending one’s property” and _very probably_ about to launch into accusations of her being a cultist sympathizer), Robin jumps in.

_“Sir.”_

Drubman Sr., not quite as stupid as he looks/seems, flinches back from her.

_That’s right, you dumb redneck sonuvabitch,_ Robin stares Drubman Sr. _dead_ in the eyes. _You **best** be scared. **You** started this shit, **you** dropped me into this, **you** put me in Jacob ‘I’m the Enforcer for a Fucking **Cult** ’ Seed’s crosshairs, now you get to reap the motherfucking **whirlwind**._

A polite little smile slips onto Robin’s face as she continues, eyes going Bambi-wide and innocent, voice going honey-sweet and unimpeachably polite and respectful and as friendly and helpful as an usher in church. “Be all that as it may,” she raises a hand in an ‘ok but _no_ ’ gesture, smile unchanging, “this is a public road. _And_ ,” she holds his gaze through the poison sweet beat of silence, all the understanding and commiseration in the world coming down on his slope-browed head like a hammer on an anvil before she smiles her way through the killing blow, “you cannot legally block off a public road.”

The apoplectic red of Drubman Sr.’s complexion is going _purple_ , his eyes bulging as he starts trying to get words to come out through all the fury.

_Yeah, **nope**._

Her smile ratchets up a few notches, sunshine alongside the sweetness, eyes going even wider with compassionate innocence. “Now if dismantling all this is going to be a problem for you then I’m _sure_ that these folks,” she sweeps a guileless hand towards the assemblage of disoriented cultists, “would be _happy_ to help you.”

From the corner of her eye she can see the Peggies start, the whole lot of them pulling up to attention as her point hits home. Her surprise mandate to Drubman Sr. had already dunked their collective hate-boner into an ice bath – the group going all flaccid and confused, unsure of what to do or how to feel once it became clear that she hadn’t been making fun of their precious ‘Herald.’ Now, with her dangling the simultaneous threat to their enemies _and_ a potential source of police-endorsed _retribution_ before them, they’re perking right the hell up – anger directed at her vanishing as they seem to decide that while the heathen dog _may_ be the heretical agent of an enemy power, the dog is (for the moment) barking at the _neighbors_ instead of at them.

For his own part, Drubman Sr.’s suddenly gone _very_ still.

Meanwhile, for _their_ own part, his people seem to have cottoned on to how the wind is blowing – decidedly _not_ in their favor, in contrast to what they’d _clearly_ thought moments earlier – and are already starting to bust the barricade down as fast as their red necks can move.

_Holy Crusade against the infidels, Batman;_ Robin shoots a _particularly_ unimpeachable smile at Drubman Sr., drinking in the way his skin tone rockets all the way to _eggplant_ before his son _finally_ manages to pull him a few steps back from the rapidly disappearing obstruction. _I may have **actually** derailed the Spanish Inquisition without anyone getting killed. I **genuinely** wasn’t expecting that._

She dips a little nod at the thoroughly shaken rednecks, followed by another – littler – one to the cultists in her field of view, her smile starting to turn more genuine as a little rush of job-well-done satisfaction (and another rush of savage vindication) starts thrumming through her, and she turns to make sure no one’s –

Jacob Seed’s standing directly behind her.

_Oh._

Robin stares up at Jacob Seed, the world going sort of dull and fuzzy at the edges around them.

_Oh, he’s…_

Jacob – who, apparently, moves pretty damn quickly and quietly for someone so big – stares back down at her.

_He’s…_

It’s the first real, proper look she’s gotten at any of the Seeds, and… and he’s… he’s just…

_Beautiful._

He really is.

Kind of distractingly so.

Robin’s not used to having to look _up_ to meet another person’s eyes, not by a lot anyway – most women she meets are shorter than her and most men are at or near her own height. Jacob Seed, though? Has very nearly half a foot on her, and _damn_ if he doesn’t have the build to go with the height. And really, truly, _hot **damn**_ ; even _less_ often then meeting people who tower over her does Robin meet people who seem like they can physically outclass her (people she’s pretty sure she _couldn’t_ take in a fight) but right now? Every instinct she’s got is _screaming_ that Jacob Seed could lay her out without too much effort if he wanted to, and _fuck_ if that doesn’t suddenly sound _really_ appealing.

_Not bad for a guy pushing fifty._

And then – just as her brain is going kind of staticy from considering how easy it’d be for him to take those great big hands and pick her up and play with her like a fucking _doll_ … then the entirety of _that_ thought fully sinks in and – 

And…

And then Robin’s mind starts ping-ponging between two facts. First, that at the _forty-seven_ his file puts him at the man in front of her is a good _twenty-five_ years older than her ( _That’s six years older than Mama and Dad…_ ). And second… he wears his age… _really. Fucking. **Well**._

_Sweet mother of DILF he wears it well._

And like, he… he _looks_ his age – not like he’s one of those freaky Dorian Gray types who’re frozen in their ambiguous thirty-somethings. He _looks_ like he’s in his late forties… but he looks like he marched right on in and made his forties his _bitch_. He’s got wrinkles and lines on his ( _Fucking **gorgeous**_ ) face – but they’re the kind that make him look _experienced_ ( _Yes_ ) rather than anything else. He’s got a few gray hairs, but they’ve in no way diminished the brightness of his red hair ( _ **Hell** yes_); hell, if anything the peppering of steely gray and the occasional spark of frosty silver just make the red seem _more_ , and that’s in _addition_ to adding more of the aforementioned experience ( _ **Still** very yes_). And that’s not even getting into the _scars_ ( _Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, fucking **yes please**_ ) that etch the signs of experience ( _Yes_ ) and strength ( _ **Yes**_ ) and _survival_ ( _ **Fuck yes**_ ) into his skin – across his ( _So fucking **gorgeous** , damn it this isn’t **fair**_ ) face and down on the patches of arm she can see, the slivers visibly between his sleeves and his gloves, and peaking over the neck of his shirt, and _fuck_ but it must’ve been bad, must’ve been so very bad but he’d _survived_ it and –

And…

_Fuck me blind._ Robin feels dazed; just past tipsy just from the _sight_ of him, from his face and his body and his _eyes_ – those impossibly deep, impossibly beautiful, impossibly _Blue_ eyes most of all. _Pretty please?_

She’s staring at him, and he’s staring at her, and Robin kind of feels like she’s trying to stare down an _eclipse_ – something too powerful and too dangerous and too beautiful, and she should look away, _needs_ to look away, before it burns her to ash, swallows her whole, pulls her into its depths until there’s _nothing left_ – something that’s too terrible and too wonderful to be real, and something’s screaming for her to _run_ but all she can think and feel is that she _**wants**_ , that she _**needs**_ , that if she turns away runs away looks away from him then she’ll _**die**_ and –

And…

And it’s _insane_ but…

But for a second she almost thinks that maybe he feels the same way.

He’s still staring at her, face utterly blank but… but there’s something going on behind those perfectly blue eyes, something that’s quietly bewildered and disbelieving, something raw and desperate and _hungry_ in those deep blue depths, something that’s taken hold of her, that’s pulling her in as he stares at her, one of his hands starting to lift towards her and his lips quivering as Jacob –

_Oh._

The world around her _freezes_.

_Oh yeah._

The warm, dizzy haze around her _shatters_.

_That’s right…_

And, suddenly, Robin finds herself staring at _Jacob **Seed**._

_I’m marked for death… aren’t I…_

Blood turning to ice in her veins and breath to broken glass in her lungs, Robin feels her eyes go wide.

_Oh **fuck!**_

A rush of adrenaline explodes through her, kicks her previously primed fight-or-flight response back into gear and then all the way into overdrive – blind terror racing through her veins as the world clicks back into place around her, as she suddenly remembers where she is and what’s going on and _who_ she’s facing off against, _who_ she’s been stupidly _ogling_ like a horny teenager and –

She’s moving, damn well _recoiling_ from the beautiful architect of her imminent gory demise, from the _cult leader_ , hand flying to her gun on primal instinct, heart racing and pulse thundering and thoughts wailing ( _Shitshitshitshitshitfuck!_ ) like air-raid sirens as she stares up into the storm-blue of her impending doom and waits for the –

Jacob Seed _freezes_ , lips parted and hand in the air, body going statue still and a flicker of something her mind can’t make sense of passing over his face before it goes just as still as the rest of him, flat and empty and emotionless as a slab of rock.

_Wh- what…_

Robin stares upwards, unmoving and unblinking, bewilderment warring with terror as she stands frozen – braced and waiting for the attack that _isn’t coming_ – while Jacob…

_He…_

Jacob’s just –

_He’s…_

He’s just… standing there.

Staring at her.

And…

For _seven **years**_ Eden’s Gate has been the monster under the bed for all of Hope County, the unnatural menace, the hungry shadow of _evil_ that’s been growing and strengthening since it first took root, first started to sink its poison into the very ground the people of Hope called home. Eden is the monster people warn their children about, the beast people bolt their doors against, the nightmare that clawed its way out of the darkness and into the light so that there’s nowhere to run or hide. It’s the embodiment of fear and _Jacob Seed_ –

Jacob Seed…

Robin’s heard about Jacob Seed – campfire horror stories told with deathly seriousness. 

Eden’s Gate is a force of terror, violence and evil, and it may well be _Joseph_ Seed that’s the _head_ of the demon – may be its driving force and beating heart and blacked soul – but _Jacob_? Jacob Seed is the one that people _fear_. Jacob Seed is the enforcer, the _threat_ , the fucking _Boogeyman_. He’s the scariest, bloodiest, most _dangerous_ man in Hope County. He’s very nearly _the last_ person you want to cross, want to get in the crosshairs of, want to step up and challenge or demean, and Robin did _all_ of that and –

And…

And instead of coming for her blood, instead of reacting with violence, instead of getting angry, instead of giving _any_ indication that he’s going to make her _pay_ – now or later – for her challenge and her insult and for her very heathen existence, Jacob Seed just looks…

_Hurt._

The thought hits her like a bullet to the chest – brutal and sudden and completely disorienting. 

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t seem _possible_. It’s _got_ to be false.

But…

_I…_ Robin stares up into Jacob Seed’s big blue eyes, a sharp stab of pain sinking deeper and deeper into her heart as the confused realization sinks deeper into her mind. _I hurt him._

And yeah, there really doesn’t seem to be another interpretation for what’s going on. Jacob Seed – scariest man in all Hope County – had come looming up over her like some horror flick slasher, and when she’d reacted like _literally_ anyone not in a cult would’ve – with very appropriate fear and preparedness for violence – he’d been hurt by it. By her response. Her _fear_. Somehow, some why, Robin seeing Jacob Seed as a threat had done _something_ that had slipped past the armor of the Big Bad Herald and struck home, sinking right on through all his defenses and hitting something vulnerable and _human_ inside him. Just a minute ago the man before her had been all set for blood, ready to commit violence in broad daylight over an idiot’s petty insults, and now? Now, after nothing but some random, _dumbass_ rookie deputy being rightfully scared of a confrontation with an apex predator, Jacob Seed’s looking for all the world like he’s about to _break down_ in the middle of the road, before God and everyone, and Robin –

Robin…

Robin… doesn’t like it.

Hates it, even.

Hates it so much she’s a little dizzy – suddenly reeling from a swell of raw guilt and empathic pain and the nearly overwhelming need to –

To…

To fix it.

She wants to do something, whatever it takes, to make the it all better. To take away the hurt she hadn’t meant to cause. To help –

Jacob Seed.

_I… am losing my **fucking** mind._

The sheer what-the- _fuckery_ of it all hits her like a bucket of ice water, slapping her rationality in the face and shocking her a step back into reality. And good enough, because that step’s enough to help her racing, _horribly_ disoriented mind register the world outside of Jacob Seed’s eyes and hurt; bringing the awareness that only a few seconds have passed since she went cringing back from the perceived threat, that her hand’s still got a grip on her gun, and that some of the nearby Peggies are starting to _notice_ that fact. She catches the sudden jolt of one of them, the sudden stillness followed by a low mutter. An instant later she can see a long-coated cultist over Jacob Seed’s shoulder go dangerously tense, his tension getting picked up and run with by the wolf ( _The wolf, the fucking **wolf** is still here, seriously what the **fuck** , **why** does he even have that thing?!_) that’s started tensing and growling itself, straining a little against the hold of the underling it’d been passed off onto when Jacob Seed had –

The situation finally clicks all the way – all the fragments of Danger breaking through the disorientation of Jacob Seed’s beautiful blue eyes and his impossible, inexplicable hurt.

_Right._ Robin makes her frozen body move, pulling her left foot up a step, lifting and straightening the rest of her up out of the terrified, ready to run or shoot pseudo-crouch she’d been in. _Go crazy on your own time, Robby. Deescalate the situation **now**._

Something flickers in Jacob Seed’s eyes as she moves, straightening and steadying herself as casually as she can, resetting back to on-the-job-and-totally-professional Deputy–posture ( _Nothing to see here, move along, we’re all fine here and not totally losing our shit, how are you?_ ) with all the easy confidence she can force. Robin makes herself ignore that flicker, just like she makes herself ignore the little voice still screaming inside her head that she needs to fix things.

She makes herself keep moving, her hand shifting up to rest on her hip, casual and easy and like that was _absolutely_ her hand’s intended destination all along, and like she _wasn’t_ going for her gun and getting ready to use it, no sir and-or ma’am, that’d be _ridiculous_ ( _Smooth, asshole, real smooth; everyone’ll **totally** buy that_). All the while she makes herself keep eye contact with Jacob Seed – trying to breathe normally and make her pupils return to their normal size through sheer force of will.

That… that _something_ flickers in his eyes again, something that makes her shudder and shake deep down inside, something that makes her skin feel raw, makes her feel all open and exposed.

_Yeah. Yeah I’m definitely going crazy._

At least her attempt at de-escalation seems to be working, if only a little. The cultists around them aren’t attacking, seem to be biding their time and looking to their overlord for clues on what the fuck is going on and what exactly everyone’s supposed to do. Robin sympathizes. And not in the least because Jacob Seed’s continued lack of response is scaring and confusing her _at least_ as much as it seems to be affecting his minions.

And then, just as Robin’s trying _desperately_ to get her brain to come up with some kind of conscious thought, The Herald _finally_ starts to move – a little shudder running under his skin and his eyes focusing down on her, and his pressed thin lips parting a little and –

Robin reacts without thinking.

“Afternoon, Mr. Seed.” She tilts her head back a touch, smiles bright and sunny and as easy as her tone of voice – almost there with just _too_ much of a brittle edge. 

Once again Jacob Seed goes dead still, the sight of it ( _Never trust a quiet predator…_ ) setting every nerve Robin’s got screaming. 

_Somehow_ her smile doesn’t fall, barely even twitches ( _Keep it **together** girl_) as she holds eye contact ( _You are an officer of the Law, a Deputy of the Hope County Sheriff’s Department, damn well **act** like it_) and tries not to lose it again. 

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Seed’s eyes – gone a touch unfocused, more looking at her than _looking_ at _her_ – suddenly sharpen, snap to life and lock onto hers, the force of _blue_ – deep waters and stormy skies and all the promise of violence and destruction in the world – almost knocking her back a step – _definitely_ knocking the air out of her.

_Well damn… you could drown in those eyes…_

And she’s not entirely sure that she isn’t.

Seed keeps staring, and Robin’s starting to wonder if it’s really _her_ he’s seeing. He just… just doesn’t seem like he can believe his eyes, somehow. Like he can’t stop staring because she’s something he can’t wrap his head around, can’t believe is real and _there_. Like looking at her’s _killing_ him but he can’t stop because looking away would just kill him faster. Like…

Like…

The weird, awful feeling inside Robin’s going crazy – her skin aching and her stomach twisting and her damn _heart_ –

Maybe it’s the fear. The awareness of how likely death is for _someone_ at the moment. But whatever the cause… whatever the _hell_ is going on inside Jacob Seed’s head at the moment… Robin’d _probably_ had something to do with it. _And_ , whatever’s going on in _her_ head at the moment, she’s got a duty as a deputy, so…

Somehow she gets herself to breathe, releases one of the choking knots of tension inside her. Then…

“Mr. Seed?”

He twitches a little at her voice (not all the way her comfort-the-victim voice, but coming right up on it), the weird mix of glassy disbelief and razor focus still locked on/at her, but otherwise there’s no real indication that he heard her.

Heart still beating rabbit-fast, Robin swallows hard. “Mr. Seed,” slow, trying not to spook him or let herself shake, Robin manages to take a step forward, _her_ hand reaching out this time, gentle and easy and open, a lifeline extended to a wounded animal. “Are… you alri-”

The glass in Seed’s eyes _shatters_ , all the confusion and conflict evaporating, his gaze going lethally focused – bright as a forest fire and coldsharp as ice – where it cuts right through her, stops her heart and freezes her mind and blood all over again.

The world slows, every detail coming through in perfect clarity – Seed looming over her, staring down like she’s the only thing in the world, like he’s going to kiss her kill her eat her alive swallow her whole right then and there and _Why Herald Jacob what big **teeth** you have_ – Robin’s heart still stopped and she can’t breathe, doesn’t know what’s going on, he’s going to – she can’t she has to needs to _needs **wants please**_ – 

Jacob Seed _shudders_ , jaw clamping shut and teeth baring in a soundless snarl, the briefest flash of raw emotion (hunger and guilt and _agony_ ) burning through his eyes and over her skin and down into her soul as he _looks_ at her for one more eternal second before – suddenly, abruptly, _violently_ – he turns away, a sharp turn and a sharper gesture to his followers (shocked and confused and motionless around them) as he starts to move, marching down the country road towards the cultists’ vehicles and away from ( _her_ ) the vanishing barricade.

The electric pressure in the air buzzes for a few beats, the energy still there but the violence fallen out suddenly, the tension gone confusing and awkward.

Then, like someone’s flipped a switch somewhere, the cultists jolt back to life and go off after their Herald – slinking and jittery, trailing after Seed like tail-tucked wolves behind their alpha – some of them shooting bewildered, wide-eyed glances at her as they go.

Robin’d probably return those glances in kind if she had the presence of mind.

_Wh-_

Robin stares after ( _Him_ ) them – feeling breathless, raw and small and confused, frightened and inexplicably _wanting_ , dazed as she watches ( _Him_ ) them move farther and farther down the road, loading themselves – cultists, guns, wolves and all – into their cross-branded trucks. She stares, watching the sharp flare of red until it ducks out of view, chest aching and breathless and for _some reason_ fighting the heady, irrational instinct to go _running_ after him – after _Jacob Fucking Seed_ and –

And…

There’s a daisy-chain of rumbling – all the Eden trucks coming to life, engines grinding and growling as they pull away, ugly oatmeal vehicles vanishing down the road and into the South.

And Robin just stands there.

Staring.

_What… the **fuck** just happened?_

Robin stares, watching the last of the taillights vanish around the curve in the road, feeling very confused, conflicted, and more than a little like she’s about to throw up.

_Aside from the psychotic break that everyone always said I’d have, obviously._ A flash of impossible _blue_ shoots through her mind, the memory catching her like a baseball bat to the head, shooting a shiver through her skin and tearing a little gasp from her lips. _And apparently my…_ she feels her face (and a few other anatomical components, honestly) grow hot, a very unfamiliar sensation that she’s reasonably certain means she’s blushing, _my sexual awakening?_ A weird, confused, not _entirely_ unhappy little noise escapes her. _Not the **best** timing there… or best **trigger** for it…_ There’s another flash of _blue_ in her mind, this time accompanied by quite a few other things… some of which are… born from extrapolation, informed guesswork, and a touch of wishful thinking, if honesty’s still on the table. The anatomical hotspots go up a few degrees, and start to branch outwards. 

_Oh fuck all kinds of duck._

Robin gives into (at least _one_ ) impulse and squeezes her eyes shut _tight_ ; resisting another impulse to find something to bang her head against (and, again with the honesty, quite a few more… less _tame_ impulses). _Why are the truly crazy bastards always so **fucking gorgeous**?_

She’s still feeling all kinds of lost and confused (dazed, disoriented, all the fun synonyms) when, moments later, something big and metallic goes clattering to the ground in a thunderous din and hail of yelling, upsetting the only just calmed wildlife and sending Robin spinning around, hand flying back near her gun as she turns back to the squabbling deconstruction efforts of the rednecked _fucking **morons**_ that’d first set off the whole horrifying affair.

She’s still dazed and confused when she takes a breath, schools her expression and her posture and her entire demeanor into something professional, takes another breath, and starts walking towards the nearly dismantled barricade.

She’s starting to get her shit together as she reaches them – each step kicking her more and more into autopilot, muscle memory and habit taking over, her muscles relaxing and body language going languid and easy, her lips quirking upwards into a friendly little smile that flits over the wide-eyed and pale-faced rednecks and goes honey-sweet for the glowering and sullen ones.

She’s got herself put together (or, at least, she _seems_ like she does) when she finally pulls up by Drubman Sr. – the decidedly unhealthy purple of his skin faded to a vaguely unhealthy red – and, Bambi-eyed and small-town sweet voiced, starts winding the instigator all the way down.

She tries to keep focused on the task at hand – on convincing Drubman Sr. ( _Stupid bastard_ ) that he didn’t _really_ lose just now, that this really _isn’t_ the path he wants to take, that she is _definitely_ not his enemy and he really _does_ want to go home now, and “Why _yes_ , Mr. Drubman, the current state of things is utterly _appalling_ ,” ( _Thanks for contributing to that, prick_ ), “really it’s an absolute _disgrace_ what people’ll do and allow to happen, what a _shame_ it is what the good and honest folk of Hope County have to put up with, really and truly…”

She tries.

She tries to not think about the distracting physique, about the silver streaked red, about the _scars_ , about the great big hands of the overwhelming presence or the promise of violence, about the hunger and the _hurt_. 

She tries not to think about the _blue_.

She tries really hard to not think about Jacob Seed.

She tries.

She tries to focus on dancing around Drubman Sr. and ushering his idiot friends off the ledge of stupidity and back on home. She tries to focus on her first meeting (long anticipated) with Drubman _Jr._ , and the surprising realization that she immediately likes him as much as she loathes his old man. She tries to focus on how unbelievably, impossibly _well_ the whole fiasco turned out – nobody dead and nobody dying and nothing on fire, everybody stood down peaceably against all the odds. She tries to focus on the low, heady current of blind _**relief**_ that’s running through her – the feel that she’s just dodged a whole fleet of bullets; that she came up on the situation she’s dreaded most since the glaringly obvious had finally hit her, one random night near graduation – that being a cop means that _someday_ she’ll be _forced_ to break her vow of never-speak-first, that she’ll have to take the risk and hope and _pray_ that it doesn’t come to bite her. She tries to focus on how it’d finally happened, without her even having the chance to think about it, to even _notice_ it, and she’d come out without hearing any of the Words that’ve been haunting and hounding her for sixteen years.

She tries a lot of things.

And, in the midst of all her trying, she barely notices the fain shiver, the low current of electricity that runs through the skin over the back of her neck, along the bold script that’s carved, deep and raw in a broken and trembling hand.

The broken Words that have left her scared and confused and heartsick since she was a little girl, still shadowed in ashy gray.

_**“I’m sorry.”** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Threats of Violence, brief Ableist Slurs, implied Dissociative Episode, and UST up the wazoo.
> 
> _In which we glimpse life before The Reaping, a revelation is reversed, and some Words are better left unsaid._
> 
> _Or in which Robin picks the absolute wrong time to break SOP, Jacob gets a hell of a surprise, we learn that the Seed boys aren't the only ones who're horny on the main, and it's all Drubman Sr.'s fault._
> 
> _Or or in which it's basically Jacob's first interlude from "Sign with Poison" with everything flipped._
> 
> _So I'll admit, I got pretty self-indulgent with this one; so much so that I kept on contemplating cutting the whole first chunk at the precinct out in order to streamline things. I ended up keeping it in for a two major reasons: first, because I've really wanted to show more of Robin **before** everything went to hell - give a little look at who Deputy Robin Baird was before circumstances made her The Deputy; and second... because I really liked the whole bit, and I've always figured that if you aren't writing at least partially for yourself then why are you even writing? So._   
>  _Additionally... that bit about the "no sex but in missionary position" from the first bit? That is an actual law that actually exists in the actual state of Montana. **Actually**. I have no idea how in the **hell** anyone is supposed to uphold that, and I don't want to give it much thought._
> 
> _**Additionally** additionally, here's some other actual Montana laws that I considered using for that bit, due to their extreme applicability to the people/culture of Hope County: 1) "It is illegal for married women to go fishing alone on Sundays, and illegal for unmarried women to fish alone at all" (Which I think explains Skylar's friendship with Dylan); 2) "It is illegal to bring a bomb or rocket at city council proceedings" (Which you **know** Hurk has done at least once); 3) "You must have a chaperone when you are driving with a sheep" (Which I can see so many people, most of all Zip Kupka, having an issue with); and finally 4) "You are not allowed travel with ice picks on your vehicle's tires" (Which, again, Hurk. And Sharky. Or, should I say, Hurkmungus and Sharksidous Erectus). Granted a couple of these are from specific places, rather than Montana as a whole, but still; any of them would've **fit**. In the end, though, it had to be the missionary sex one - not in the least because it **profoundly** amused me to think of how many Fem!Deps are breaking that very law all across the fanwork multiverse (and, in all honesty, in probably about 90% of all Jacob/Fem!Dep fanworks)._
> 
> _As you may have guessed by this point... I really liked this one. Ever since I started working on this AU I wanted to play with switching the reveal - making Robin the one in the dark while one of the Seeds knew her connection to them. Things fell pretty well into place from that spark. First, it obviously had to happen before the Reaping kicked off; and second, the only **possible** Seed it could've been for things to play out right was Jacob. John would **never** be able to stop himself from jumping Robin right there/screaming his joy to the heavens, and Joseph... well... ok, Joseph might've been able to keep it together long enough to get back to his compound and start organizing an abduction... which is another fic entirely... ;)_
> 
> _Well, now outpour of madness over... hope y'all liked this one, and I'll see you next Friday for the last chapter! ^x^/_


	7. Nothing - Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hey all, quick note before we get started, as a bunch of people brought up the same thing during the last chapter and I figured I'd address it here instead of going off a script in your comment responses or w/e._   
>  _So, way back in chapter 1 (in response to silverwolf51's comment) I mentioned that, during the writing of this whole work, I determined that there were two chapters with a lot of potential for future continuation. The first, perhaps obviously, was chapter 1. The second? Chapter 6. So, for all of you who've expressed interest in seeing that particular storyline continue... congratulations, you're in a lot of luck. ^_~_
> 
> _Now, having said that... ^-^"_   
>  _While I do 100% plan to continue the stories of chapter 1 and chapter 6, they are - at the moment - pretty low on my list of projects. Things may change depending on inspiration, but otherwise my plan is to knock out a few smaller projects that have been kicking around for a while (a sort of very late spring-cleaning for my brain) before launching headfirst into the **actual** third instalment of SWAC. Once I've got some/most/all of that stuff out of the way I'll start getting back into SWAC supplementary/side-stories. Now, again, this may change if I suddenly get a surge of inspiration, but I just wanted to put that out there. I thank y'all for your patience, you're a host of saints for putting up with me. \^x^/_
> 
> _Welp, behind the scenes malarkey out of the way... let's get into the final chapter of this little AU-ception. Play us out with another bwaaaam! ***BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAM***_

The end of the war against Eden, when it comes, is strangely anticlimactic.

There’s no grand final battles, no desperate last stands or races against the clock, no heroic sacrifices to win the day or motivate the final push. There’s no fields strewn with fresh corpses – dead on both sides littering the ground like fallen leaves. There’s no miracle play that flies on desperation, beating all the odds to _finally_ take down the Seeds and their worshipers. There’s no rivers of blood or skies on fire or horns of judgment to drop the final nail in the coffin.

No, in the end there’s just one lost storm-chaser with a personal plane, a long-range radio and a lot of attentive friends, and two days later the National Guard arrives in Hope County.

Even the Peggies are able to read the writing on the wall.

Somehow (she sort of… blacked out a little during the preliminary conversation) Robin ends up in the convoy that drives into Joseph Seed’s compound, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Sheriff Whitehorse. There’s some guy in the front seat (she thinks he might be the field commander or something) who’s been talking since they started the drive, a stream of words that started all confident and satisfied and got progressively more tense and uncomfortable as they went – as Whitehorse occasionally deigned to offer terse one-or-two word responses, as Robin just _sat_ there as still and silent and cold as the grave.

She keeps trying to play the events over in her mind but she… she just _can’t_. The best she gets are snapshots – brief flickers of the last few days’ events.

It just… doesn’t feel _real_. She keeps waiting to wake up, to find herself tired and hurting in an appropriated bunker, or in a field of Bliss flowers, or _finally_ staring up into the blue eyes of a long feared captor.

She closes her eyes, digs her fingernails into her palms, and lets go.

She opens her eyes and Whitehorse is still by her side, the National Guard guy is still babbling in the front seat, and their convoy is rolling across the bridge and onto Joseph’s island.

There’s a burst of static at her hip, her own radio buzzing to life and Dutch’s profoundly annoyed voice filling the car – each word carefully clipped and full of deep disapproval as he ‘formally requests’ that either The Dep or The Sheriff inform Colonel Johnny-Come-Lately that if his weekend warriors could pull their heads out of their asses and start listening to Eli Palmer instead of getting in his way then maybe, _just maybe_ , things up in the Whitetails will get cleared up before the heat death of the universe occurs.

That pulls a reaction from her – a sharp, rough bark of laughter that jolts through the vehicle.

One of the others – maybe-probably the Colonel’s ( _Dutch **probably** knows the guy’s rank_) aide – shoots her a look, all indignant and affronted. Robin locks eyes with him and all the offense evaporates from his expression, his skin going chalky and eyes going anywhere but at her.

From her side Whitehorse sighs, already reaching over to pluck her radio off her belt himself, voice steady and even as he responds, reassures Dutch that the forces up in the Whitetails will get the order to fall in line. The steadiness doesn’t waver when Col. JCL starts to go red-faced; he just hands the radio back off to Robin, leaning back in his seat as he holds eye contact. “You get all that, Colonel?”

Robin watches the guy’s face cycle through a few colors, watches a wary edginess creep into his eyes, his gaze twitching under the Sheriff’s for a few beats before shifting over to her.

Robin smiles back at him and the guy goes as white as his aide.

All the National Guard folks are twitchy for the rest of the ride, a few of them shooting very askance (and very brief) looks their way when the Colonel gets on his radio to relay orders Northwards. Whitehorse meets each look that hits him with _complete_ indifference. Robin meets each look with a smile.

 _Sorry folks,_ she hums a little as the latest glarer looks away sharply, unhappy noises getting hung up in the other woman’s mouth. Robin hums again, the edge of bitter laughter making the sound sharp and low and making more than a few people flinch. _If you’d wanted laurels and palm leaves and a parade down the street than maybe you shouldn’t have taken four months to figure something was off and show up to help._

Four months…

Robin’s staring ahead, eyes having trouble focusing but – nonetheless – still fixed on the National Guard Colonel, the world hazy like she’s staring through a veil of red-dyed mist.

_How in the ever loving **fuck** does an entire American county drop off the grid for **four months** without anyone noticing?_

The thought cycles through her mind, the mist growing thicker as the world fades away.

It doesn’t feel real.

Pulling to a stop in the middle of Joseph Seed’s compound – Peggies on their knees in surrender all over the place, gray faced and shaking under gunpoint as the Guard secures and processes everything and everyone, the whole world turned upside down – doesn’t really make things seem less like a fevered Bliss dream.

Whitehorse is getting out of the car, Robin following instinctively and –

The second her feet hit the ground the situation hits her – fever dream going full nightmare as Robin finds herself standing in the compound again, her blood and breath freezing and the world falling out beneath her as the past and present collide.

Blood and sweat and fear, gunpowder and smoke, ash and the sickly sweetness of death hit her, heavy in her nose and on her tongue as the sounds of sobbing, of cursing, of desperate prayers and the dying moans reach her ears – the scents and sounds made all the more pungent with the hazy mist blinding her.

She’s doing her damndest to breathe, swallowing down hard against the sour tang and coat of ash inside her mouth, attention so focused on keeping it together that she barely notices the movement around her until there’s a man in a vest stepping out in front of her, boots heavy on the dirt and head lifted in assured overconfidence and “– Seeds are up in their church and we’ve already got the compound contained; all we need to do is go in and you two can –”

Everything is falling away – the feel of the sun turning to the crisp cold of night, the surrounding cries echoing through the fog, anger at their trespass ringing out from all around them as they move through the compound, Peggies spitting curses at them as they make their way to the church, Burke obliviously steady in the lead, the Sheriff and Joey painfully tense in front of her, Staci’s forced flippancy fading into the background as they go to arrest The Father – Father Joseph – Joseph Seed – Joseph – Joseph – Joseph The Father The Devil the **soulmate** \- they’re going to arrest her **soulmate** and h _e’s going to – we’re going to – we’re all – it’s a trap – a traptraptraptraptrap – they’re going to – he’s – I can’t – we have to stopturn back runrunrun runaway have to run turn around and run before they can’t do this have to gonow before we’re all going to have to stop why can’t I stop why won’t they stoppleasestop they’re going to take themhurt them hurt StaciJoeyBoss please run they’re going to hurt you going to hurt hurt hurt hurthurthurthurthurthurthurt no can’t not again I can’t not again I can’t no more no more no more please no more I can’t can’t can’t stop hurting me please I can’t –_

“ _ **Rook**_.”

Robin jolts back to herself with a gasp, pulling away and grabbing at her 1911 before her vision clears up, Whitehorse’s face suddenly coming back into focus in front of her.

“Easy…” Her Boss is hovering, close enough to touch without crowding, hands raised and open between them. “Easy, Rook. Breathe.”

She manages to follow his advice, choking down a sharp breath that tastes like copper and feels like broken glass, then somehow manages to repeat the process. It’s enough to clear her vision more, and to ease some of the barely restrained tension from her Sheriff’s face, Whitehorse nodding encouragingly and slowly – very slowly – reaching over to rest a hand on her shoulder as she forces breath after breath. “That’s it, Rook. That’s it.”

She has to force herself to stay still, to not recoil from the touch, and that fight shakes her breath control for a few painful moments.

_Keep it together, keep it together, keep it the **fuck** together._

Her stomach’s roiling, her mouth’s gone completely sour and coppery, and the erratic beat of her heart’s so rapid and loud in her ears she can barely hear anything else. She –

_I can’t –_

Her eyes squeeze shut, fire burning up behind the lids and sparks going off in to the black like the Fourth of July’s gotten into the Bliss.

“ _Boss –_ ”

The rough, weathered hand squeezes on her shoulder, the pressure just across the line into too tight and she clings to the connection and the pain for dear life and sanity.

“Rook,” you could build a house on the steady foundation of Whitehorse’s voice. “You hold up here and keep things secure.” There’s a little swell of noise behind her, muffled and disjointed in her panic like its coming from underwater, and whatever it is makes the sheriff’s grip relax a little, his thumb rubbing a comforting little circle across her shoulder and his tone going a hair light. “See if you can keep these lunatics from setting anything on fire while you’re at it.”

Somehow Robin’s eyes open themselves, Whitehorse’s face – steady and perfectly composed, with only a sharpness around the edges of his mouth and a feverish jitter deep in his eyes for people who _know_ him to notice – filling her field of vision until, _finally_ , she manages to pull her shit together enough to nod. “Boss.”

He nods back, then shoots another nod to the sound coming up behind her. Then he’s turning and walking deeper into the compound with about a dozen National Guard soldiers in attendance, his voice sharp with barely constrained rage as he cuts off Colonel Whatshisface’s quietly abashed “Sheriff, I thought –” with a snarled “Like _hell_ you did,” and smothers anything further with a low “Let’s just get this the fuck over.”

A few moments later they’re passing through the whitewashed gate that leads up to the church and out of sight.

It takes everything Robin’s got to not start _screaming_.

She tries to focus on breathing, on staying upright, on staying present and in the moment.

It feels like she’s trying to keep her mind _hers_ while drowning in the Bliss.

“Robin?”

The voice – soft and low and warm as a hug, so full of support and concern it’s all she can do to not start sobbing – washes over her, wraps her in a little web of comfort that tugs her back from the edge of hysteria, and when a hand comes to rest on her shoulder she damned well _melts_ into the touch.

Grace steps in closer, not pulling her in an actual hug so much as bracing her across her shoulders and back with one arm, and within seconds it’s getting easier to breathe and see and not go full fucking postal. The others fall in beside them in short order – Nick pulling up on her non-Grace side and Sharky hopping up onto the hood of the truck beside them, Addie reclining all regally against another car and very pointedly sneering around the compound with aesthetic disdain, Hurk weirdly quiet as he shuffles around next to his cousin, Jess coming around a few steps in front of Robin and glaring third-degree murder at the lingering aide and any other living beings that dare stray or look too closely at them, and Boomer ( _Good Dog, Good Boy, Best Boy_ ) padding up to curl around her feet with a sigh.

Nobody says another word, and Robin starts to think she might actually be able to keep it together and believe that –

That…

_It’s over._

She tries to hold the thought in her mind, giving into impulse and leaning back into Grace, lets Nick slip a hand into hers and indulges herself further by squeezing back.

_It’s **over** , we **won** , they can’t –_

She flinches, shudders, fights back against her gag reflex and the burning behind her eyes. Closes her eyes tight and _breathes_. She forces herself to focus on Grace pulling her closer and Nick squeezing her hand and Sharky’s foot easing out to tap against her leg. She tries to remember where and when she is.

She tries to believe.

_We won._

Her people are there with her – Grace and Nick, Sharky, Jess and Hurk and Addie, Boomer her Good Boy, all crowded around and having her back.

_It’s over._

Peaches is back in Fall’s End, watching over Mary May and Pastor Jerome and keeping the National Guard down there in line.

_We did it._

Joey’s with them. Joey’s safe, _free_. They’d gone and cracked open the Holland Gate, slaughtered their way into its depths and found her, found _everyone_ , pulled them from the cells and the torture rooms and brought them weeping and raging and reborn into the land of the living. Joey’d snarled and shrugged off the medics long enough to see Robin off, smiling like a broken knife and shaking on her own two feet and _“Make those fuckers **bleed** ”_ until Mary May finally managed to drag her back inside.

_We stopped them._

Staci’s safe. They’d stormed St. Francis and found him, skin like ash and silently weeping, standing with a bloody knife and bloody clothes and bloody handsfacemouth over the bodies of the Chosen who’d been about to execute all the prisoners. He’d fallen into her arms and they’d shook and sobbed and neither of them’d let go until they were safe in Wolf’s Den. He’s still there, still safe, guarded by Cheeseburger and Tammy Baker (the sweetest and the scariest the entire Resistance has to offer – Cheeseburger solemn and gentle as he’d snuggled close and let Staci hold him, Tammy all but gleeful in her viciousness as she swore to keep him safe and sound) while Wheaty helps coordinate between the Whitetails and Dutch and everybody else (Fall’s End, Tracy and Virgil down in Henbane, the fucking National Guard) and Eli burns the last poisonous traces of Jacob Seed and Eden’s Gate off the map.

_It’s over._

They’d done it.

_It is._

They did.

_They can’t –_

There’s just… just this one last step and –

There’s a sudden spike of noise – cries and wails and screams from the nearby Peggies, sharp warnings and low growls from the National Guard, deafening silence from her people and –

Robin opens her eyes and –

_Oh._

– time stops.

_Speaks of the devils…_

They’re just passing back through the whitewashed gates – Whitehorse and the National Guard people.

And three men in cuffs.

The world around her starts to blur again, the sight making her brain go all fuzzy and her thoughts tilt and swim drunkenly, and this time she actually doesn’t mind the detachment.

It’s…

There’d been a time when Robin would’ve _sworn_ (up one side and down the other and all the way over the river and through the woods and down into hell itself) that this very sight – _one little two little three little Seed brothers, caught and cuffed and in custody, marching off to **finally** face the music_ – would’ve been an _actual_ dream come true.

But now?

Now it’s right there in front of her, every hope and prayer and fantasy come to life, and Robin’s just… empty.

It’s an all too familiar feeling.

She’s vaguely aware of her family moving all around her – Grace tugging her closer and Nick squeezing tighter and Sharky hopping down to stand next to her, Jess bristling up and Addie and Hurk pulling in close, Boomer shaking against her leg as he bares his teeth and _snarls_. She’s aware of the change in the atmosphere – the air going all heavy and electric, the sounds all around going wonky from the surge of contrasting clamor and dead silence. She’s aware of the growing tension in all the National Guard people, the chalky death mask that’s replaced Colonel Whatsit’s overconfidently Burkean expression, and the way Whitehorse (painfully tense and unnaturally pale) is clearly trying to push the whole procession out and away towards the vans that the Peggies are being loaded into as fast as possible.

Robin’s _aware_ of it all.

It’s just that none of it’s reaching her.

Not when all she can focus on is the three men being escorted to judgment.

Jacob’s at the back of the little triangle of prisoners – the height and the bulk and the blazing red of him standing out like a flare in the darkness. The Soldier’s tense like a caged animal, every muscle coiled and head tucked defensively, angry and murderous and desperate to break free… but restrained. _Waiting_. Eyes dark and hungry as he bides his time and _watches_ for any sign of _Weakness_ to exploit. He probably couldn’t look more like one of the Judges in Sarah Perkins’ custody if you threw a fur coat on him – a primal force seething in captivity, all wrapped up in a human-suit. Even now, even without the firsthand knowledge of what Jacob Seed is (what he can do, _has **done**_ ), the soldiers around him look scared, big dogs that are smart enough to realize that they’re dealing with something altogether _more_ than them – the damn Big Bad Alpha Wolf, all pissed off and ready for them to slip up, death only held at bay (for the moment) by his being tethered and outnumbered and –

And…

And injured.

Jacob’s _injured_ – his gait off balanced by a heavy limp, one arm hanging not quite right, and a heavy splash of red spilling down from a livid, raw looking gash on his left temple (just the right shape and size for the butt of a rifle), the wound already surrounded by painfully red skin that promises to turn into a truly horrific bruise in short order.

She gets caught on that for a moment. Can’t fully wrap her head around it – can’t figure how Jacob Seed would make any kind of tactical blunder so as to get himself so badly injured. She can’t understand how _The Soldier_ would throw himself so _pointlessly_ into a fight that he (no idiot, no matter what else he may be) would _know_ he couldn’t hope to win.

She can’t understand it all the way until her gaze gets pulled over to John.

John’s almost smack-dab in the center of the procession, his fancy clothes all rumpled and dirty and torn, hair messy and beard sticky from blood that’s still tracking sluggishly from a busted lip. John’s limping too, a softer version of what’s afflicting his oldest brother, and the people escorting him have the narrowed eyes and unyielding grips reminiscent of someone handling a particularly unruly feral puppy. One look at John (at his injuries, at his handlers, at the way he keeps trying to shoot concerned and guilty glances back at Jacob) paints the scene in her mind, and a follow up glance at The Soldier (a deep well of profound _concern_ for his baby brother just visible beneath the stoic rage, alongside scraped and bloody knuckles for him and a few bruises and busted noses scattered around the Guard) pretty much confirms it.

She can see the scene play out – the Sheriff and the Guard entering the church, John (so young, so devoted, so _Wrathful_ ) bowing up even when painfully outnumbered, _The Baptist_ all set to carry on the Holy War, not knowing or caring that it’d already been lost; John lashing out even as his brothers tried to stop him, the Guard (outsiders, unknowing, unaware of The Baptist) hitting back; and Jacob, The Soldier, The Big Bad Wolf, the Big _Brother_ , smart enough to see the battle was long since lost and it was time to retreat-surrender-play _dead_ , throwing all caution and strategy and reason to the wind and leaping into the fray, getting himself beaten and bloody and _defeated_ for the sake of protecting his baby brother.

It’s left its mark on John, aside from the physical injuries. He’s so full of fury ( _Wrath_ ) and insult that it’d be visible from a mile off – the angry, ugly energy coursing through him so much that he’s shaky and rigid enough to break, eyes blazing with _hate_ and teeth flashing white. The energy keeping surging up – building and building until he’s straining and fighting against the hands holding him, head shaking and teeth snapping and hateful bile spewing from his lips like poison from a snake, the Wrath bubbling up to the surface, ready to boil over and turn to _violence_ …only for John’s flaying gaze to land on Jacob, the rage ( _WrathWrathWrath_ ) turning cold and crumbling to ashen horror and _guilt_ , John’s head falling limp and all the fight going out of him, compliant and complacent and _contrite_ until the energy starts building and the cycle starts all over again.

It’s the closest she’s been to John and Jacob in weeks ( _Coldfreezingsuffocatinghurthurthurt **hurt** in the river, knives and razorwire and shards of ice cuttingclawing **hungry** over the heart, pretty poison smiles and cyanide sweet voice ripping me open and making me brokenempty **nothing** ; painpainpainpain **painfear** , skin torn blood poisoned corneredcaughtcaptured, wolf-smile and hungryhateful eyes, satisfied after the hunt ready for the kill, teeth sinkingtearing **claiming** into the back of the neck, horrorterror **hurt** and the cold weightless drop, run run have to runget away can’t let **him** know have to **run** before –_) and the sight of them alone is enough to make her dizzy and sick, to make her skin burn and crawl and heart ache and her mind _scream_ that she needs to look away ( _Get away, run away, runrunrun **run**_ ) before something _breaks_.

But she _can’t_.

Can’t move.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t look away from Jacob and from John and –

And…

And there _**He**_ is.

Joseph Seed’s at the head of the procession, steered by the iron grip of a grim and gray-faced Whitehorse.

At a glance The Father looks just as serene as the last time he’d been arrested – head held high, ethereal and otherworldly, above and untouched by everything. Joseph Seed, beatific and beautiful, with all the grace and solemnity of a martyr.

Robin wonders if it says something about her, that she can see right through that veil of peace.

There’s no real peace in The Father right now. No. No, Joseph is nearly _blind_ from rage ( _WrathWrathWrath **Wrath**_ ), that same unnatural tranquility running through him now that she’d seen back in the Bliss – the cold calm before the firestorm.

Joseph may _look_ like he’s going peacefully, like he’s accepted the situation with sorrowful dignity, accepting the turn of events with a heavy heart and unshaken faith.

Robin doesn’t need to look twice to know that acquiescent peace is a complete lie.

Underneath it all, Joseph is on the verge of burning the whole fucking world and all its sinners – the heathens and the heretics that spurned the blood-soaked gift that he and his brothers forced down unwilling throats – to _ash_.

And Robin, standing there and staring at ground zero, can feel all of it.

She can feel Jacob’s restrained anger and hungry anticipation.

She can feel John’s frenetic conflict, insult and injury and incensed ire, loathsome helplessness and clawing guilt.

She can feel Joseph’s tranquil _**Wrath**_ – the righteous anger lurking breath the martyr’s mask, any pretense of compassion or forgiveness or mercy burned away as he looks out on the world that’s wronged him, _rejected_ him, refused his benevolent tyranny and dared to oppose his _vision_ and there’s just so much _**hate**_ in his eyes that –

Oh.

_Oh._

Joseph’s eyes are wide – wide and impossibly, inescapably, ineffably _blue_ as she drowns in them, breath seizing and heart freezing and mind stuttering to a stop as all the blood and hellfire and _**Wrath**_ in Joseph Seed’s eyes swallow her and –

_“You.”_

The word hits her like the sky’s falling.

She can see Joseph surging forward, Whitehorse snarling and swearing as he yanks the cult leader up short, the Guard jumping and pulling their guns up in borderline panic, Robin’s own people surging forward themselves – going tense as they ready themselves for violence, as they close ranks all the way around her. None of that seems to even _reach_ Joseph. He’s straining – struggling – against the sheriff, teeth bared like a feral dog and hellfire eyes still locked on her.

There’s _none_ of The Father’s otherworldly peace now. No sign of the divinely appointed prophet, the sainted shepherd and loving savior. No. Now there’s only Joseph Seed, the _man_ – made real and human by his absolute, eternal and undying _hate_.

And it’s all for her.

 _Well…_ the thought flitters distantly through Robin’s mind, a new world of cold emptiness left in its wake, _at least he’s being honest about it now._

Her eyes are fixed ( _transfixed_ ) on Joseph, the world beyond him fading into the background like it’d done all those months ago, just a little further into the compound in his church, when Robin’s life had well and truly gone to hell. And, also just like then, she can see Jacob and John behind Joseph – their eyes locked on her too, reflecting the raw _hate_ that’s radiating from their brother like the moon reflects the sun.

It’s almost funny, really. The way nothing’s really changed.

So funny she could just die.

Numbly, she sees Joseph try and surge forward again, face warped by hate and shaking so hard he might fly to pieces.

“This…” His voice – barely recognizable, the honey sweet of his soft and round Georgia purr gone lethally sharp and venomous as a snake – hits her like a freight-train. Jagged shards of ice and waves of hellfire crash over her, cutting and tearing and burrowing into the sickly scrawl of Words around her left hand and wrist, lightning and poison spilling into her veins and clawing all the way to her heart, the sheer _**hatred**_ he feels for her crashing down on Robin like the whole weight of the ocean. “This is _your_ doing.”

It is funny, really. How utterly alike the Seed brothers all feel when they hate her.

And a little sad, too. How used she’s gotten to the feeling.

Joseph comes to a stop, every muscle straining and all his weight holding him leant towards her so that – in the moment – it’s all the sheriff can do to just hold him in place, intent and unmovable in his hate as he stares gouts of hellfire into her eyes.

“ _No_.” Whitehorse own voice rings out through the air, rough and sharp and strangled with exertion and emotion as he yanks viciously on Joseph’s cuffed arms, one hand going white-knuckled where it grips his shoulder and tries to pull the cult leader towards extraction and away from _her_. Even at a distance she can see the light in the old sheriff’s eyes, a fire all his own blazing as he rises up in defense of his deputy. “No, _you_ do _not_ talk to her.”

Almost like that’s a signal the others start moving around her, Jess snarling and spitting rage all her own at the prisoners while an uncharacteristically silent Hurk and Addie glare daggers by her side, Grace squeezing her tight and Sharky turning away in disgust as he reaches for her, hands outstretched in comfort and support as Nick tugs at her arm and murmurs “C’mon Rob, let’s go” low and soothing into her ear.

All that sweeps over Robin in a moment – the support, the protection, the _love_ of her fucked up little found family.

It just… doesn’t seem to reach her.

She hears the voices surrounding her grow a little sharper. She feels the tug on her arm grow more insistent. She doesn’t move. She _can’t_ move. Not with Joseph’s blue eyes pinning her in place, swallowing her, locking every muscle down as her blood freezes and her soul _burns_.

For his own part, The Father doesn’t seem to notice any of her people any more than she is able to heed them. Every last inch of Joseph Seed is focused on her as he snarls his hate into the air, white teeth flashing and blue eyes blazing out of a face gone dark and thunderous from _Wrath_. “You think you’ve _saved_ these people?!” Hands bound and held fast, all Joseph can do is swing his head at the heathen masses around him, the action making him look all the more like a rabid dog. “You’ve _**damned**_ them!” He lunges again, voice rising above the tense warnings and Whitehorse’s strangled cursing. Joseph still doesn’t notice; not Whitehorse pulling him up short or the Guard closing in around him or Robin’s people closing in on her. No, for the moment it seems that all Joseph sees in the world is Robin.

To think there’d been a time when that was her fondest dream.

“When the Collapse comes, _all_ of these will be _lost_ , and their blood will be on _your_ hands!” The words hiss out from between Joseph’s bared teeth like a rattlesnake’s threat, and damn if it doesn’t make Robin feel as paralyzed as the bird she’s named for, each syllable and accusation a new drop of poison in her skin and the cold blue still holding her in place. “ _We_ would have saved them!” He lunges again, barely moving an inch against the sheriff’s hold that he only now seems to notice; his muscles going tight and tense, ripples under his skin as he seethes. “We would have preserved their lives and shepherded them into the paradise of a purified world. _Your_ actions have only ensured that when the end comes…” Joseph’s blaze rage turns suddenly cold, burning venom transforming into shards of ice that hook into her skin, tugging and ripping her open all the more with each accusation. “All these lives _will be **lost**_.”

A moment of deathly silence sweeps over the compound – everyone suddenly frozen as Joseph’s last words, choked by despair and wet with _tears_ ring out.

Cold and drifting and hurting like she’s dying, Robin stares at Joseph.

His head is hanging, shudders wracking him as he _mourns_ , sharp pulls of choked breath rasping outwards as he fights to regain composure, seconds ticking by before he starts to go still again and –

“And for _what_?”

A wave of empty cold sweeps over her.

“For the _Pride_ of a handful of the heathens’ sinful ‘leaders…’” slowly, cold and controlled, Joseph lifts his head to ensnare her gaze once more, the razor sharp ice of frozen _Wrath_ clawing its way down into her heart and soul as Joseph whispers another rattlesnake hiss, “and their blood-stained _weapon_.”

_Stop._

“You don’t understand.” Joseph continues, cold and cruel, staring dead into her eyes and either not knowing or (more likely) not caring about the pain he’s causing her. “ _You_ could _never_ understand.”

_Please stop._

“You’re too far fallen, too lost to darkness and bloodshed; you _soul_ –” the cruel, mocking twist to the word rises, cresting over Whitehorse snarled rage and the clamor of incomprehensible swearing around her, “– is too steeped in _violence_ , so hungry for death and destruction and so full of _Wrath_ and _**Pride**_ that you’ve willfully _blinded_ yourself to the _truth_.”

_**Please.** Please just **stop** –_

“We _tried_ to _save you._ ”

Robin’s pretty sure her heart stops beating.

She’s cold. Numb. Not even feeling the pain anymore as she stares across the empty void, her soulmate’s impossibly blue eyes and all-consuming hate the only things left in existence.

“We gave you every chance; we would have _welcomed_ you into our flock,” each weary, condemning word hits her like frozen raindrops, Joseph’s resigned understanding and self-righteous regret crawling up her skin and flooding into her mouth, choking and drowning her in his pious judgment, his martyred pain at her rejection, his _Wrath_ at the spurning of mercy he’d so graciously offered clawing down and reaching for her tattered little heart –

_Please don’t…_

– and underneath all the emptiness it still hurts. _Somehow_ , despite all that’s happened, even after everything they’ve said and done, it _still **hurts**_ and she just wants him to _stop_. But the words keep coming, washing over her like she’s drowning in blood, voice sharp and cruel with cold fury as he snarls, “Despite all you’d done, we would have forgiven you,” and his injured rage _**hurts**_ and –

_Please just –_

“We would have welcomed you into our _family_.”

\- and the world falls out beneath Robin.

_Wh-_

She can’t breathe.

_What…_

She can’t –

_No…_

She –

_Please…_

She…

Joseph’s still speaking, the sound of his voice slowly reaching her through the darkness – reaching down into the abyss inside the abyss that she’s fallen into. She can’t make out the words, not right away. She can’t…

Robin blinks – an eternity passing as the void turns to darkness, the darkness turns to a haze of mist, the mist finally clears to –

– Joseph’s impossibly blue eyes, still staring through her with all the hate in the world.

And all she can do is stare back.

_Please stop._

“I thought,” the cold fury is still burning through him, but there’s a whole new pain underneath – some deep, personal wound that’s been roused up by whatever he was saying while her mind fell away, and when he speaks again there’s the faintest strains of self-recrimination in his voice. “I thought The Voice had commanded it…” For one moment of pure _relief_ his eyes close, the loss of that impossible blue simultaneously freeing her to breathe and cutting into her all over again. The moment doesn’t last long. Seconds later his eyes open once more, and all the cold in them has melted away as the hellfire blazes back to life.

“I was _wrong_.”

She knows what’s coming. Wants to run from it, to hide, to escape the new lash of pain just this once.

But she still can’t move.

Joseph’s eyes won’t let her.

“ _You_ ,” his voice hangs in the air like the blade of a guillotine, cold and sharp and lethal for one moment before the rope is loosed, “are _not **worthy**_ of our forgiveness.” His words sink into her skin, his eyes cut down into her soul, as Joseph Seed’s _hate_ spirals around her. “Not _deserving_ of a place in Eden.”

And, just are she feels the burning escape her eyes and cut a trail down her face, the floodgates of Joseph’s _true_ Wrath finally burst.

“You are no lamb to be saved,” the primal _scream_ shatters the air – a poison that burrows into the liquid black Words around her hand and wrist, tearing its way inside her to poison her blood, hungry blackness ripping into her heart and coiling into her damn and damned _soul_. “You are the _**Snake** in the **Garden**!_”

Something clamps down on her arm, _hard_ ; the sudden grip pushing its way through the overwhelming storm and jolting a part of her back to reality, even as her eyes remain fixed on Joseph.

Suddenly she’s aware of the world once more – the terror-pale National Guard people that are trying to keep all the captured Peggies contained, trying to keep some kind of barrier between the Seeds and Robin, so clearly lost in utter disbelief and confusion and _horror_ at the whole damn situation that it’s all they can do to keep their heads on; her Sheriff, gray and red with blind _rage_ as he wrestles with Joseph Seed, trying to drag the raving cult leader away from her and visibly fighting to not give into temptation and draw his gun; Jacob and John, standing just past Joseph, staring at her with every bit as much hate and disgust and desire for _blood_ as their brother; and, all around her, her own people, pressing so close to her it’s a wonder anyone can even breathe.

Jess is at the front, _screaming_ , ranting and cursing and trying to drown Joseph’s hate with her own.

Addie and Hurk are behind her, Boomer moved up between them, her dog snarling and baying like something primal while Hurk backs up Jess’ profanity and Addie screams at the Guards to do their fucking jobs already.

Sharky, planted square in front of her, deathly silent, trembling and pale, tense and coiled like he’s about to throw himself forward and tear the Seeds to pieces with his own two hands.

Grace, standing at her shoulder, arm thrown across her chest and hand squeezing her bicep, murmuring a stream of desperate comfort into her ear.

And Nick, bracing her from the other side, hand clamped so hard on her arm it has to hurt _him_ , pulling hard enough that her body’s actually moving, turning her away from her soulmates’ hate as his voice comes strangled and low into her other ear.

“We’re _leaving_.”

She starts a little, a punched out little gasp working its way out of her mouth, and all around her her family jumps to respond.

Grace _shoves_ , just once, pushing into Nick’s pull and sending Robin’s stumbling a little in the dirt.

Sharky just appears in front of her, eyes wet and furious but still forcing a smile as he tries to help, to gentle her along with the others. “Yeah… yeah fuck this drama, Boss, let’s get out of here.”

Boomer’s pressed back against her legs, head still turned towards the Bad People, a feral snarl making his whole body shake and shudder.

Addie’s backing up, one hand on Jess’ shoulder and voice low as she tries to usher the still screaming huntress along, Hurk’s voice uncharacteristically level and low as he _snarls_ out “ _Fucking **psychopaths**_.”

Something quavers inside her – little stress fractures that she can feel reaching towards a break of some kind.

Slowly, numb and jittery, she lets them pull her away.

Her eyes stay locked on Joseph.

At least until the others have got her fully turned around and she _can’t_ look at him anymore.

Losing sight of him nearly sends her crashing down to the ground.

And, as it turns out, makes his voice so much _worse_

“You are _nothing_.” Each word, spat with disgust and hate, follows her, sinking into her skin even as the others try to pull her away to safety. “A mindless vessel of violence, and one day your sins will hunt you down and when that happens you will die – empty and alone as you have always been.” His words lash out in a snarl, drowning the sounds of comfort and support that try and reach her. “You think you’ve won. That you’ve defeated us.” Sick mockery crawls over her skin like spiders, sinking points of pain into her again and again and again, followed by a deeper lash of pain from the _disdain_ in Joseph’s low purr. “You’ve only delayed the inevitable.” The condescension, the smug satisfaction and self-righteous _certainty_ in his words burn trails of hellfire and lightning from where they seep into her skin. “We will bide our time, and one day we will stride from your rotting world into Eden, free and pure…”

_For once, please, **please** just **stop** –_

“And whole.”

Her feet stop moving.

_What…_

Slowly, breath frozen in her lungs and heart lodged somewhere in her throat, Robin’s head turns, her gaze pulled back to Joseph like a puppet on strings.

His eyes are closed again, head bowed ever so slightly and a little smile – soft and tender and _loving_ – playing over his face, the whole image of the raving madman suddenly banished and the beautiful, sainted _Father_ standing – peaceful and kind and glorious – in its place.

That’s not what her eyes are drawn to though.

Not really.

No… instead all Robin can see is his _hands_.

And the way he’s twisted them so – even with the cuffs – he can rest a gentle and loving hand over the inside of his right forearm and –

And, somehow, that’s when it finally hits her.

Barely feeling the others around her, not really hearing their quiet pleas, Robin’s eyes flick between each of the Seed brothers.

Their expressions have changed since she was last able to focus on them, the single-minded hate bled away under their brother’s words. Now John’s face is alight with distant adoration and anticipation, while Jacob’s has gone all tense and drawn with warring desire and what looks like _guilt_ , and their hands –

Robin’s gaze flickers between all three brothers, on where each one is resting a hand in the exact same place.

On the inside of the right forearm.

A place that each of them has covered.

A place that each of them has _always_ had covered – every time she’d ever seen them in person or image.

The place where –

Where…

She can still hear Joseph, hear the strangled voices of his captors, hear her family’s low voices as they try and get her moving again.

She doesn’t budge.

She’s frozen again.

But…

But this time…

This time it’s not pain that’s stopped her.

Robin’s head cants to the side a little, listening as Joseph’s ceaseless tirade washes over her.

_He’s…_

The words play through her mind, dancing around each other.

_He’s…_

Finally it fully clicks into place, a wash of clarity sweeping over her like cold water.

_He’s threatening me… taunting me… with his last soulmate._

Robin’s fingers move, all of their own accord – curling into the swath of bandages that hide the inky black that circles her left hand and wrist.

_He’s taunting me… with **me**._

Joseph’s voice continues to wash over her, the meaning of his words and the smug sense of vindication pooling in her skin, and distantly she aware when something inside her mind gently goes _snap_.

“We will overcome this.” The smooth curl of confidence eases back into his voice – the returned satisfaction of someone who really, truly believes that he’s already won. “We have been _chosen_ to shepherd and safeguard _paradise._ ”

The cruelty bleeds away as Joseph’s _belief_ overtakes him, the promise of his Voice lifting him up from his ugly Wrath and returning the smooth _beauty_ of the prophet, _The Father_ to his words – a honey sweet promise for all who hear and believe that this defeat is just one more trial to overcome, and then…

“There is more to us…” The last echoes of cruelty are still there, though; and all for her. Triumph and anticipation curling through his words as he purrs this last blow, religious fervor and human satisfaction lifting his voice to the heavens like all seven trumpets of judgment in one. “There is more to our family then someone like _you_ could ever know.”

Her fingers twitch into the rough fabric of the bandages.

“And when our family is _whole_ , then _we will_ –”

Robin lifts her left hand into the air, barely even feeling the sharp bite of cold wind against her bare skin.

The world goes silent.

 _Joseph_ goes silent.

For a moment she just stands there – frozen, numb, empty as the wind flits over her and carries her bandages away, and as the Montana sun shines down on the glossy black Words that coil around her skin.

Then, slow and smooth – like someone’s slipped into her skin and she’s just along for the ride – Robin’s left hand lowers itself, tugging down the collar of her jacket even as her head tilts to the side, her braid swaying out of the way and leaving nothing to hide the black scrawl across the back of her neck.

It’s so quiet she can hear her own heartbeat – an impossibly steady rhythm.

Her head is moving, turning back towards the silent crowd behind them, and the rest of her follows a beat late, her hand slowly following the line of her jacket down to the neck of her shirt, pulling the fabric down and exposing the black venom over her heart, everything coming to an easy stop once she’s fully turned and facing –

There’s a sense of something like peace settled over her, a detached calm as Robin stands – all her sins and secrets revealed at last – and stares at her soulmates.

And she watches, still and silent, as they finally see her.

She sees John shake and shudder, trembling as he visibly fights to comprehend the sight before him; his eyes large and flooded with confusion, with _tears_ , all the anger of The Baptist bled away to leave a lost little boy behind, soulcrushing despair and heartbroken confusion etched on every inch of him, all artifice burned away to reveal the raw, desperate _emptiness_ and bottomless _longing_ of John Seed to the world.

She has just enough time to see Jacob _shatter_ ; his skin going colorless and his eyes going wide, horror and understanding and an all-consuming look of _shame_ rushing over his face before he _crumples_ – The Soldier finally falling, a broken shudder running through him, just once, as his head drops and he goes slack and lifeless in the hands of the Guard, all the fight gone out of Jacob Seed as he collapses into his own hollow self.

And there, standing before his brothers, frozen and deathly pale as he _stares_ at her, she sees Joseph.

He looks like the world’s just fallen out beneath him.

He looks like someone’s just torn his still beating heart from his chest.

He looks like a man who’s just come to face a mirror, seen all his sins reflected and his measure come up short, tearing down everything he’d ever thought and believed, leaving him hollow and empty and _bereft_.

Joseph stares at her and he looks like he’s _dying_.

_**Good**._

Time seems frozen around them, men and women on all sides motionless observers to the silent confrontation at the center of things. In that center (the eye of the silent storm) the Seeds are so still they could be taken for statues – Jacob still head bowed and lifeless in his shame, John torn open and left flayed raw in his desperation, and Joseph at their head as always, staring at her like he’s looked into hell itself and seen his own image reflected at him from the Devil’s face.

And Robin? Robin just stares back at him – the sun and the wind and the eyes of all assembled burning cold on her exposed soulmarks.

She kind of wishes she could really feel something – anything – in the moment.

It feels like the time for that sort of thing.

But, really, she just feels… cold.

And tired.

Which is so commonplace by this point that it’s basically nothing. Just like…

Well, anyway, everyone’s still staring, so that’s probably something to worry about at some other time.

Just as that thought hits her, Robin sees something change in Joseph’s eyes – a little -click- of something she’s not even going to try and decipher. An instant later a broken shudder moves through him, accompanied by a ragged gasp, tears welling up in his eyes as he stares at her and parts his lips to speak and –

_No._

Slowly, deliberately, carefully, Robin takes a step forward.

Joseph freezes again.

John flinches like he’s been shot.

Jacob’s still locked away in his own collapsed world.

Everyone else is probably reacting in some way, but damn if Robin’s able to register them at the moment.

_Another thing to worry about later._

Silently, Robin takes another step forward. Then another. And another. Again and again, measured steps moving her forward until she’s standing before Joseph – just about the space between them that there’d been four months ago inside his church.

She stops.

Stands there.

Holds his gaze evenly.

Then, the world frozen around them, empty but for Robin and Joseph and John and Jacob, she takes one long, deep breath… and opens her mouth.

And then she stops.

Lips parted, Robin stares dead into Joseph Seed’s river wide, ocean deep, drowning blue eyes.

Then, slowly, Robin cants her head ever so slightly to the side, her brows furrowing a little and mouth quirking back a little on the left in a study of contemplation.

She lets the silence hang, staring. Watches Joseph’s eyes grow wider, more desperate and horrified, his skin turning fully ashen under her deliberation. Behind him she can see John shake and shudder, little boy lost and confused as he stares, panicked little breaths punching out from his lips into the air. And just past him she can see Jacob, head still hung like a beaten dog, so motionless she’d think he was dead if not for the nearly imperceptible shivers that keep running under his skin.

Slowly, Robin cants her head back and to the other side, the motion sending a spike of raw pain through Joseph’s face that burns into her eyes for one agonizing second before she closes her eyes.

A moment passes.

Two.

Three.

Finally, with a little huff of breath that carries the ghost of a bitter laugh, too low for her voice to actually reach any of the Seeds even in the dead silence, Robin opens her eyes again to meet Joseph’s gaze.

Robin stares up into her soulmates impossibly blue eyes.

She smiles.

And her lips fall shut.

There’s just enough time for her to watch the last traces of color fade from Joseph’s face, the spark of _realization_ burn inside his impossibly blue eyes, before she turns on her heel and walks away.

The world’s faded all around her, colors bleeding out and the sound dropping away so she doesn’t know if the continued silence around her is real or if she just can’t hear any surge of pandemonium behind her. All she really registers in the faint sensation of the earth underfoot, the environment blurring as she moves forward one step at a time.

Sense only really starts coming back when a hand takes hers, the almost too tight squeeze drawing her eyes up to focus on Sharky’s face.

The rest of reality starts to flicker back to her slowly – first the feel of Grace’s arm wrapping around her shoulder, pulling her close; then Nick’s shoulder pressing against her other side as they start moving forward; the musty smell of gunpowder and cheap booze from Hurk, of perfume and engine grease from Addie, of forest air and the faintest hint of blood from Jess; the staccato bump of warm fur as Boomer winds around her legs.

More starts to reach her – distant cries and wails and snarled threats from the captive Peggies; the sharp barks and orders from the National Guards; and the low, steady _Command_ coming from her Sheriff.

She think she hears… _feels_ something else too – something in her skin and in her blood, something that curls through her heart and down into her soul, before the slam of doors and the roar of engines cuts it off from her.

But maybe that’s just her imagination.

The world comes all the way back to her, finally, with the feel of cold wind on her face, the sun warm on her skin, and the gentle lap of water against her boots.

Robin opens her eyes, staring out over the surface of the water and across the land and up into the sky of a liberated Hope County.

She squeezes the hands holding hers, leans her head against the shoulder supporting her, and huffs a wavering laugh at the voices surrounding her.

Her family close around her, the war won, and her job done (just for the moment), Deputy Robin Baird stares up into the impossibly blue Montana sky and smiles through the tears.

“Goodbye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: PTSD, Dissociation, Referenced Physical Assault/Abuse, Emotional Abuse, and Victim Blaming.
> 
> _In which we return to Where It All Began a bit ahead of schedule, the Seeds finally learn that actions have consequences, and Robin decides that sometimes the best thing to do **is** Walk Away._
> 
> _And there we have it - six times Robin's Words to a soulmate were different... and one time there was only silence. Thanks for joining me on the ride, y'all, I hope you enjoyed it._ <3
> 
> _So, actually, really quick - one last thing I want to touch on, as it's come up **a lot** from y'all in regards to this verse. Let's talk about Rejection._   
>  _In much the same way that there's a difference in my soulmate AU between **W** ords (the first thing someone communicates to their soulmate) and **w** ords (… words), there is a difference between **R** ejection and **r** ejection. So while the latter is exactly as it sounds, same definition in this AU as in our world, the former is a rare phenomena wherein one party in a pair/group of soulmates actually **severs** their soulbond, which normally only occurs due to death. Now, while this is actually going to play a role in Instalment 3 and I want to save some of the details for that work, there is one hardline rule I want to share with y'all - Rejection can **only** occur when a soulbond has been Resolved between **both** parties. Basically, if person A and person B are soulmates, and B has spoken their Words to A but A has **not** spoken their Words to B, neither party is capable of Rejecting the other; **however** , if B speaks to A **and** A speaks to B, then - technically - either one could Reject the other. The same rules hold for group situations, with the additions that: 1) you don't have to Resolve **all** soulbonds to Reject **one** Resolved soulmate (A can Reject B, without Resolving C), and 2) you can Reject **some** soulmates but not **other** soulmates (A can Reject B, without Rejecting C; or B and C could Reject A, but not each other)._   
>  _Hopefully this answers some questions, and isn't completely impenetrable with my weird made-up fanfic jargon. ^-^"_
> 
> _Well, again, thank y'all **so much!** And... bye for reals now. ^x^/_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wintercearig](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20591924) by [BramblingBarberries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BramblingBarberries/pseuds/BramblingBarberries)




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